


The Rose and the Stone

by Laroyena



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Magic, American Wizards, Bat Family, Canonical Character Death, Complicated Relationships, Cuddling & Snuggling, Dubious Consent, Fluff and Angst, Grief/Mourning, Hogwarts, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inappropriate Behavior, M/M, Once and Future King, Panic Attacks, Plotty, Reincarnation, Rough Sex, Slow Burn, Soul Bond, Soulmates, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-08-27 06:15:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 6
Words: 84,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8390383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laroyena/pseuds/Laroyena
Summary: Bruce was eight-years-old when his life fell apart. A green light and a strangled curse and a man in strange, navy dress—and then they were dead.
(Batman/HP-verse fusion with a dash of Camelot legend added to the mix: Bruce is King Arthur, the Justice League is his round table, and Dick is the most important person in his life. Together, they save the world.)





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> So the Fantastic Beasts movie is coming out in a few weeks and I realized I'd have to post this before it blows away my stupid made-up interpretation of American Wizardry. Even though this fic is a MONSTER. It's primarily DC-verse based, with only the bare minimum details from the Harry Potter verse to ground it. I'm not an HP expert by any means, so there's bound to be some mistakes regarding the world (plus I'm not familiar with Pottermore/non-book canon, so any info that wasn't covered in the books, I just... made up.) Apologies in advance!
> 
> Because it's so long, I'll be posting this in chunks over the next few weeks. At least once a week, probably more since the movie's coming out. I'll add tags as I go along.
> 
> As a general note, I've been super super busy lately so apologies for not responding to comments. I read them all, though, and they really do make my day! Thanks guys ;u;
> 
> **Chapter Notes**
> 
> No smut in part one because Dick is pretty firmly a child. And Bruce is in his early twenties, he barely counts as an adult. Underage tag just to be safe. Like a lot of my other fic, this one takes place over a long period of time, and so Dick has all his teenage years to awkwardly pine :P

“You are my king,” the beautiful boy said, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. “And I will always love you.”

“Don’t go,” he whispered, and the boy smiled at him.

Then, before the king could even blink, oily darkness flooded the world. The boy was ripped asunder by that awful creature, and when Arthur went for his sword he found his scabbard empty.

“Arthur!” a voice called out from behind him. A wizened old man snatched him up by the arm and dragged him out of the dark magic. “Arthur, we need to _go_!”

“He’s still down there!” he screamed at him—

“Bruce?” he startled awake when a warm hand stroked his hair. He blinked rapidly before focusing on the graceful figure of his mother in her dressing gown. She sat by the edge of his bed. “Bruce, sweetie, it’s just a nightmare.”

“Oh,” he said in a small voice. He hugged her around her waist and shivered when Martha Wayne drew him close. She smelled nice, like roses. “Sorry, Mom.”

“We’re sorry we came home so late,” she said, rubbing soothing circles on his back. “Alfred told us how you stayed up waiting.”

Bruce sniffed and rubbed his eyes. He vaguely remembered refusing to let go of the staircase banister, wanting to welcome his parents home from their trip overseas. Alfred must have carried him to bed after he’d fallen asleep.

“S’okay,” he said, lying back down. His mother tucked him in beneath the covers and turned off his bedside lamp. The darkness brought back the sticky feel of the dream, filling him with dread. He called out, “Mom?”

She turned back from the door. “Yes, Bruce?”

“Do you…” he swallowed. “Do you believe in magic?”

His mother tensed—and he wished the room wasn’t so dark, because he couldn’t see her face. She relaxed after a second, morphing from shocked silhouette back to the soft figure he was familiar with.

“Magic isn’t real, Bruce,” she said, her voice soft and soothing. “Now get some sleep.”

She shut the door behind her, and Bruce reluctantly closed his eyes.

His dreams that night were dark and empty and more than unsettling, but nothing as clear as that first one before his mother had spelled it away.

 

\--

 

Bruce was eight-years-old when his life fell apart. A green light and a strangled curse and a man in strange, navy dress—and then they were dead.

“Curious,” the man said. He lowered the black stick in his hands and cocked his head at the boy scrabbling at his parents’ bodies. Bruce pried a similar brown stick from his father’s hands, the one his father had whipped out the moment their attacker had appeared from thin air.

Bruce had no idea what the stick was or why it was important, but that didn't matter. He pointed it trembling at the man’s head.

“You don’t even know how to use that,” the man said derisively.

He pointed his own stick at Bruce again and said: “ _Avada Kedavra.”_

Green light struck Bruce’s forehead and cracked through his body like a thousand electric shocks. He cried out in pain but didn’t drop his father’s stick. Just focused his energy towards holding his ground until the pain settled, and only then did he glance upwards.

The man looked horrified.

“How…?” he whispered, which was when Bruce lifted his father’s stick and sent a bolt of _something_ right into the man’s chest.

 

\--

 

Men and women in various, garish-colored robes swarmed Wayne Manor.

“Wizarding Supremacists,” was mentioned more than once. “Obliviation,” was another.

“You certainly will _not_ obliviate Master Bruce,” Alfred Pennyworth stood his ground. Bruce wasn’t sure what _obliviate_ meant, but from Alfred’s indignant expression it probably wasn’t anything good. “He is protected from such actions by the Wizarding Relation Clause in the statue of secrecy regarding non-magical blood relatives—”

“We’re just considering the future of the child, Mr. Pennyworth,” the man in the reddest pair of robes tried to reason with the butler. “In cases like this, it is sometimes… easier to use obliviation. Helps the children integrate themselves better in the Muggle world.”

“Master Bruce will fall into my care, Auror Christenson.”

“Yes, but what happens when the child grows up? He’ll be completely incapable of joining American wizarding society. Saddled with the trauma of his parents’s death and the stigma of being born without magic—”

“Auror Christenson!” a man called out. Bruce looked up from where he sat huddled on the staircase. The newcomer cradled his father’s slightly charred brown stick in his hands. “We’ve finished the analysis—the killing blow definitely originated from this wand.”

“Perhaps Thomas managed to fell him at the cost of his life?” Christenson said, but his underling shook his head.

“Not very likely sir. You see the charring at the tip? That’s uncontrolled magic, the kind only seen in kids.” He glanced down at Bruce. Suddenly, it seemed like everyone was looking at Bruce. “Didn’t the first responders find the boy holding the wand, sir?”

Alfred stepped in front of Bruce. “I’m afraid what you’re suggesting is impossible. Master Bruce is a squib. He was comprehensively tested when he was six.”

Bruce had no recollection of such a testing. But that didn’t seem to be unusual in this strange new world of magical bolts of lightning and adults swanning around in dressing gowns. In a world where magic was apparently real.

In a world where magic had killed his parents.

“Run the boy through some magical assessment tests,” Christenson ordered. “Cover our bases or risk getting yelled at by Eisenhardt. The Supremacists have been getting trickier; I heard there are scrambling fields that can cause magic to go haywire…”

“Alfred,” Bruce whispered when two of these ‘aurors’ approached him.

Alfred put his hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be right here, Master Bruce. The young women here are just going to go through some simple exercises with you, alright?”

Bruce’s lip trembled, but he nodded. Ducking his head, he let the butler walk him and the women into the sitting room.

 

\--

 

Bruce couldn’t levitate a feather or make a drawing dance on the paper or float pens in the air, even when one of the aurors tried to spook him with a sudden flare of light.

His hair caused none of the little vials to change color. Holding the women’s sticks and repeating some butchered latin resulted in nothing but a cramp in his hand and frustration at being corrected for his pronunciation.

They were the ones pronouncing things wrong, not him.

“No magic whatsoever,” the aurors reported to Christenson, who looked smug at being proven right.

“We’ll be in contact with you Pennyworth,” the Auror bowed once the troupe of festive-colored witches and wizards returned to the welcoming hall. “We don’t take the death of one of our own lightly. Thomas was targeted specifically for being a decorated Auror, and we’ll get to the bottom of this.”

“I’m sure,” the butler said stiffly.

On their way out, one of the women who had tested him noticed a vicious scratch on Bruce’s knee from where he’d fallen during the attack.

“Oh, you poor dear!” she said, “Your guardian should have dealt with this immediately. I’ll fix you up, no problem.”

She tapped her own wooden stick—her _wand_ —and muttered, “ _Episkey_.” Bruce shivered at the strange warm energy that radiated from his leg—but otherwise, nothing happened.

The woman frowned. She repeated the incantation again, and the warm feeling returned. When still nothing happened, she stood up in bafflement.

“Curious,” she said, and Bruce felt a chill run up his spine.

_Curious, that man had said_.

“Miss Rachel,” Alfred said sharply, briskly walking up to where Bruce had frozen in anger. He gathered the boy in his arms and gave the abashed-looking auror a nod. “I believe the rest of your squad has already made their exit.”

“Oh—well. Yes, of course,” she bowed. “Good bye, Mr. Pennyworth.”

It wasn’t until after she’d left and Alfred had wrapped a seething, silent Bruce in a blanket that the boy noticed the room looked different.

Where a few tasteful, single-budded flowers had stood was now an explosion of life. Vines climbed down the dressers and curled around the armchair feet.

“Oh my,” Alfred said faintly when he walked back in with dinner on a tray. Bruce felt warm all over, and felt even warmer when he touched a plant and watched it go into full bloom at his touch.

“Explain,” Bruce finally turned to the butler, his friend, his only family left. Alfred sighed and put down the tray. He pulled out a thin, white stick from his back pocket and kneeled before him—and told Bruce about _magic_.

 

\--

 

After he finished, Bruce went into their family library and climbed up into the small alcove his father had forbidden him to enter. If he was going to deal with this world that had ripped his parents away from him, he was going to learn everything he could.

He was going to do everything he could, because Bruce Wayne didn’t cower in helplessness.

Because Bruce knew he had killed that man as surely as that man had killed his parents; something he hadn’t even told Alfred, though he suspected the butler knew.

It gave him nightmares. Nightmares of his parents collapsing in a shower of green light, and the man falling backwards with a look of shock on his face. Nightmares where it was his hand that held the wand that had killed Thomas and Martha Wayne.

Bruce might not have magic, but he certainly had _something_. Something powerful enough to save his life.

 

\--

 

When Bruce was eleven years old, Alfred shut the windows with a troubled sigh and wandered into his parent’s bedroom.

He returned with a parcel wrapped in cloth.

“Your father intended to give this to you on your birthday this year,” the butler said softly, and left Bruce to unravel the gift on his own. Inside the parcel was a book on amulets, of all things, which Bruce had come across multiple times in his father’s collection.

Despite that, Bruce was positive there was something in the book that separated itself from the rest.

And he was right.

 

\--

 

When Bruce was eleven years old, he discovered what a magical conductor was.

They were objects that vibrated on the same wavelength as magic itself. Treasures that could accept, store and release magic at its owner’s whim.

An amulet made of rare, singing gemstone. A crystal mirror that cried or a glass ball that swirled with a smoke that came from nowhere but within itself.

A person, very rarely, who could absorb any magic imaginable. Who could release it at his choosing until the magic ran out—and he returned to being a non-magical being again.

A _squib_.

“Did you know,” Bruce asked Alfred quietly.

“We knew,” the butler replied, “the moment your parents brought you back from the hospital and your father tried casting a warming spell on you. It didn’t work. You were still quite cold and insisted on letting us know with your wails. They tried putting you in the crib. You pounded the bars with your fists and set the whole thing ablaze.”

“They didn’t tell me,” he said.

Alfred paused before responding. “No, they didn’t.”

_Why_ , Bruce wanted to ask. _What made them scared enough to hide magic away from me all these years?_

But Alfred hadn’t mentioned it, and Bruce knew better than to push when his butler stood his ground.

“Can I test it,” Bruce said instead, demanding. Alfred looked disapproving. Bruce sat further up in his chair. “I don’t—I don’t want to be caught unaware if something like this happens again. I want to be able to defend myself.”

Alfred sighed. “Very well, Master Bruce. But I warn you: be prepared for progress to be… slow.”

 

\--

 

Progress was indeed slow.

So slow that Bruce had finished his undergrad by the age of seventeen and _still_ had trouble turning a cleaning spell into a healing one. Or even rechanneling a spell to warm a room rather than cool it, when the fundamental difference between the two was miniscule.

“I know it’s possible!” he erupted furiously, pacing the kitchen while Alfred looked at him from the sink. “All magic is _energy_ at its base. Once it’s absorbed, it can theoretically be converted into anything imaginable.”

“It stands to reason that redirecting a spell is easier than transforming it,” Alfred said, and pointed his wand at Bruce. Bruce felt the slick energy of a cleaning spell ooze under his skin. Too angry to run another test, he slammed his hand onto the counter and watched the granite magically wipe itself sparkling clean.

He then stomped upstairs and upended the books he’d collected from the local magical bookstore—books he’d worked hard to buy once the witch who owned the store discovered he was a squib. Bruce hated that word. _Squib._ It meant he was constantly underestimated, which worked to his advantage, but only if he could actually _do something_ with his abilities.

He stewed over the problem for weeks before approaching Alfred again.

“I think I need a teacher,” he told the butler.

“Absolutely not, Master Bruce,” Alfred said sharply. “I promised your parents to keep your ability a secret, and I won’t—”

“My parents are _dead_ , Alfie!” Bruce shouted. “They’re dead and I’m not because of this _thing_ I have. What’s the point if I can’t use it? Control it?”

He stormed into the basement and pummeled a punching bag until he could barely stand. He curled up in a chair and didn’t move when Alfred quietly came downstairs; not even when the man levitated the chair—not Bruce, they’d learned early on that trying to levitate Bruce caused all the objects in the room to go flying into the air—and carried him to his room.

“Please, Alfred,” he whispered when the butler hauled him ungracefully into bed.

Alfred sighed and perched on Bruce’s bedside. “I’ll write a few letters to some old colleagues of mine overseas. But Master Bruce, please understand. There are too many unscrupulous wizards who would want to use you to amplify their powers. Who could use you to their advantage if they found you out.”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Bruce said, and closed his eyes.

 

\--

 

A risk he came to understand very well after R’as al Ghul attempted to take him under his thrall. There was something about this man that had exuded power and knowledge from the very beginning, drawing him with a promise to teach _control_.

There was also something about him that seemed fundamentally Dark, and it was the first time Bruce really considered the difference between Dark magic and Light magic. Light magic was beautiful and freeing, filling his belly with butterflies that threatened to float him away. Dark magic, on the other had, was thick and oily.

It reminded him of old nightmares and beautiful boys ripper asunder.

“He will try and claim you,” his daughter Talia approached Bruce one night with a warning, “and I will let him. You must run, Beloved, before your quest is nipped in the bud.”

Bruce had considered her beautiful figure by his bed. “You can leave, Talia. You don’t have to be part of the Dark.”

The woman had given him an enigmatic smile, half-fond and half-pitying.

“Oh Arthur,” she said softly. “Our roles have already been decided for us. You will always be my unreachable desire…” She leaned close. “And _I_ will always be the enemy you’ll never see coming. Not until it’s too late.”

Bruce blinked—and she was gone. He took a shuddering breath.

_Arthur_. It was the first time anyone had called him that other than in his dreams, and it scared him how familiar it felt. Not fitting exactly, kind of like a skin he’d outgrown—but familiar.

“We could rule your kingdom together,” R’as insisted as he pointed his gnarled, twisted wand at Bruce’s head. "Take back Camelot and tame magic once and for all." Talia’s warning had come true, and Bruce knew every move he made would be a deciding one.

“No,” Bruce said, voice even despite the rapid beating in his heart. “We can’t.”

And then he used the tiny amount of apparation magic he’d kept stored for emergencies just like this, and transported himself out of the dark cavern with a thunderous crack.

He landed gasping in pain on an arid mountain somewhere. He clutched his leg: a huge chunk of his thigh had gone missing, and the wound was bleeding profusely. Splinching. Right. Another reason he’d never used apparation; traveling side-along with Alfred never gave him enough juice to take all of himself somewhere new.

Gritting his teeth, Bruce began to crawl down the mountain. The nearest village was five miles away, which would have been doable without his injury but now seemed impossible.

Nothing was impossible.

If there was anything the League of Shadows at taught him, it was that.

 

\--

 

By the time Bruce returned to Gotham, he’d made himself a promise. A promise to protect these people—these _muggles_ , as the wizards liked to call them—from the hidden dangers of the magical world. No one else was going to. Supremacists slaughtered the magic-less Gothamites every day, and no one in the wizarding community cared.

Bruce cared. He cared enough he wasn’t going to let his fellow non-magic users go unnoticed. He was going to make sure everybody knew Gotham was off-limits from magical and non-magical crime alike; and that any offenders will have to face the Bat lurking in the night.

 

\--

 

When the two trapeze artists fell to their deaths, Bruce was too far away to stop them. He could only watch in horror as the fellow circus performers crowded around their prone bodies—and their son, frozen above where he’d been about to join his family act, fell to his knees.

And then the boy _screamed_.

It was like Bruce’s entire body had been electrified. He only had a split moment to soak in that magic before the circus started to literally unravel around them. Stands split in two; the canvas above ripped and was set ablaze. Bruce used some of the raw energy—and it was _raw,_ nothing like the pointed, immovable spells adults preferred using, and so much easier to manipulate—and flicked his father’s wand. Levitating himself to the ground had never been so easy.

The boy didn’t move even when the pillar he was clutching began to teeter. One of the clowns cried out when the beam finally fell—and the boy slipped off the platform and went careening to the ground just as his parents had done moments before.

Bruce was too far away to stop him. He didn’t need to.

The boy _bounced_ off the ground and went tumbling in a heap. A very alive, still-sobbing heap that the circus performers seemed wary of approaching. Muggles, then, the lot of them, which was unfortunate because the tent was still collapsing. Bruce took initiative and scooped the boy into his arms.

“Come on!” he shouted at the adults frozen around him. It took only a few minutes to escape into the cool night air with the still shivering boy cradled against his chest. He turned back in time to see the circus collapse completely—a physical symbol of what this boy had just lost. His parents. His home.

His life.

“ _Obliviate_ ,” a voice called out, and Bruce turned sharply to see the ring master slump to the ground. An auror was going through the crowd tapping his wand to each confused bystander’s temple. When he approached Bruce and the boy, the businessman took a step back.

“Bruce Wayne,” he introduced himself flatly, like any Gothamite couldn’t recognize him at once. Even the magical ones.

“The squib,” the auror said. That was only fair: Bruce had spent most of the last year and a half making himself look as magic-less as possible. The auror lowered his wand and peered at the boy in his arms. “This is the kid, huh? Biggest explosion of underage magic I’d ever seen.”

“His parents,” Bruce swallowed around the lump in his throat. “They fell.”

“They _fell_?” the auror magicked a notepad out of the air and uncapped a self-writing quill. “Muggles, then. Hm. Signs of magical tampering in the back tents, the original reason why we were here. This is the fourth muggle-targeted attack in two weeks.”

Bruce knew that. It was why he’d attended the show too; it was why this whole event hit him so hard, especially with the boy clinging to him. He’d stopped sobbing in favor of staring at the auror with large, suspicious eyes.

The auror finished muttering notes to the quill and turned back to Bruce. “Alright, Mr. Wayne, you know there’s a procedure for muggleborns. Come on, kid.”

“What did you do to Pop Haly,” the boy shrunk away from the auror’s hands. He buried his face in Bruce’s shoulder, and not for the first time he wondered why the boy hadn’t flinched away yet. Bruce was a stranger too, after all.

“He’s sleeping,” the auror explained.

The boy narrowed his eyes, “Liar. You _did_ something.”

“I simply—”

“And what’s a _muggle_?”

The auror changed tactics and gentled his tone. “Look, I know this is very scary for you…”

“Dick,” the boy whispered. “Dick Grayson.”

“Mr. Grayson, then. It’s scary, and I know you probably have a lot of questions like ‘How did I do that!’ and ‘Was that magic?’ To which I say, welcome to the wizarding—“

“You’re going to take me away, aren’t you,” the boy—Dick—said sharply. He bristled like a cat, and Bruce startled when he felt that electric current run across his skin again. “My parents are _dead_ and you—you’re gonna take me away like they always said you would and _I don’t want to go_!”

The auror yelped when his notepad burst into flames. Before Dick could set the auror himself on fire next, Bruce placed a large hand to the center of the boy’s back. Pure magic rushed into him, so much he barely kept from gasping. Dick, on the other hand, _did_ gasp, and immediately twisted around to look at the man holding him.

“Oh,” the boy said, blue eyes blown wide.

And then he placed his head back on Bruce’s shoulder and just— _sank_ magic into him in waves.

“I can take him in for now,” Bruce managed woozily once the auror finished brushing the ashes off his robe. His skin buzzed. “I’m sure we can work something out later, but it’s been a long day for him.”

“Well—yes, you’re right,” the auror allowed. “And the boy seems more behaved around you. But you understand, Mr. Wayne, that the boy cannot return to his muggle home with such volatile expressions of magic.”

“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Bruce said sharply when the staticky feeling returned. He clutched Dick closer to him and walked off, wondering what the hell he was going to say to Alfred other than admitting he’d essentially kidnapped a child from the circus.

The butler was going to be so disappointed in him.

 

\--

 

“Magic is real,” Bruce told the sniffling but otherwise silent boy beside him. Alfred had grumbled and glared and given Bruce his patented _We will speak of this later, Master Bruce_ look—but he’d softened at the sight of the boy in Bruce’s arms and prepared the room across from Bruce’s own.

Dick looked tiny on the sprawling expanse of the bed. With his feet half-curled under him, he looked even tinier.

Bruce said, “There are witches and wizards, who have magic, and muggles, who don’t.”

Dick squinted at him, “Are you a wizard, Mr. Wayne?”

“I’m a squib,” Bruce corrected him. “The opposite of you. I’m a… muggle born to a wizard.”

“And I’m a wizard born to muggles,” Dick said to himself. He curled up into a ball and put his chin to the top of his knees. His lip wobbled. “I’m not going back to the circus, am I?”

“You aren’t,” Bruce told him in a blunt tone, and sat awkwardly when the boy sniffed and held back tears. “But you will be placed in a home that will teach you everything you need to know about the American wizarding world. You will be taken care of, Dick.”

“You’re not lying to me, are you?” Dick said, because this boy was too perceptive for his own good.

“No,” Bruce said, because on this matter he was going to keep his word. He won’t let this boy down; won’t let him experience the same loneliness he had when Dick actually had _magic_. “I’m not. Now get some sleep—we’ll figure out what to do in the morning.”

 

\--

 

Dick Grayson was nine-years-old, a wily acrobat, and had a very spotty, magically explosive history.

“They’d keep moving from town to town,” the witch at the New Jersey Establishment explained when Bruce was filling out paperwork. “And you know how disorganized the aurors are when cases cross state borders. The records stop two years ago, which just shows how slow the Federal Establishment is at updating its files.”

Slow indeed. From what Bruce could gather, Dick’s been leaving a trail of bizarre happenings since he was a toddler: a flock of rare parrots making an inexplicable escape from a local zoo; the shoes of an entire playground full of children coming to life and dragging their screaming owners around; one town reporting three days of perfect weather despite the entire state being caught in a newsworthy storm.

All perfectly normal demonstrations of underage magic—but children usually only had one such big event before proper schooling. Having all three and more was something Bruce hadn’t realized was… unusual. Not until the first time Dick was sent to live with a local wizarding couple.

“No!” Dick had shouted and locked himself in the cupboard under the staircase. Alfred exchanged a worried glance with Bruce and cast _Alohomora_ onto the door lock. It clicked open, and Bruce ducked his head in and stared at the boy shivering in the dark.

“Dick,” he said in a low tone. “The Joneses will take very good care of you. They can—they can teach you about magic and the magical world. Show you things I can’t.”

“I don’t want to learn about magic,” Dick whispered. “I don’t want to go with them. I want to stay with you.”

“I’m not suitable as a guardian,” Bruce said, heart feeling like it was being squeezed. Because just a few days with the boy had spoiled Bruce. Dick’s magic filled the air wherever he went and sank so much easier into him than any of Alfred’s spells.

But no, that was selfish. 

“I’ll come visit,” Bruce said, and Dick finally looked up. “And you can come visit too.”

“Promise?” the boy sniffed. Bruce solemnly nodded, and Dick crawled out from the dusty cupboard. He led the boy to the foyer where the Joneses had been patiently waiting and let him go.

Two days later, Dick was back.

“He’s such a sweet child,” Heather Jones rushed to explain when Bruce gave her an icy glare. “And it’s so awful what happened to his parents. But we—our house just isn’t equipped for so many mishaps. Three broken windows and our Kneazle’s turned bright pink. And the worst part is…”

“…he doesn’t do it on purpose,” Bruce said flatly, and Heather just nodded at him in miserable agreement.

Dick stayed the night and was sent off to another couple the next morning, one that the New Jersey Establishment assured Bruce was used to rowdy magical children.

“Dick’s not _rowdy_ ,” Bruce said, but the social worker just waved him off.

Dick was back within six hours.

“He threw Gregory out of the second floor window!” an enraged Frank Durand yelled. To his credit, the boy didn’t cower. Just stomped inside the manor and went to what Bruce couldn’t help but think of as _his_ room. Later, once the Durands had left, Bruce knocked on Dick’s door and let himself in.

The boy was sitting cross-legged on the bed, his duffel bag on the floor and his jacket slung over a chair. Bruce froze.

“Who did this,” he strode over and lifted up Dick’s arm. A large, mottled bruise bloomed across his wrist, like someone had held him down.

“Gregory,” Dick muttered. When Bruce stood up in a rage, the boy grabbed his sleeve. “Bruce, don’t.”

“You were acting in self-defense—”

“And I’m safe now,” Dick shook his head. “Told Greg he ever try what he did on some other kid, I’ll come back and throw him out the window again.”

“There should be no other kid,” Bruce said darkly, but sat back down when Dick tugged his sleeve a second time. Dick snuggled up against his side, and Bruce hesitantly put his arm around his shoulder.

This boy was so very different than Bruce had been after his parents’ deaths. Bruce had shrunk away and isolated himself; Dick clung onto people and things with fierce tenacity. Perhaps that was why Dick seemed so attached to Bruce. He’d imprinted on him like a duckling in the wake of his parents’ deaths.

Bruce reported the Durands, the social workers fussed over Dick, and the next foster home was lined up. It only took two more families for the New Jersey Establishment to finally give up.

“It seems you’re to be Mr. Grayson’s guardian by default,” the social worker that came to visit them in the morning said dryly. She peered down at Dick, who was staring wide-eyed at her from behind Bruce. “As no one else seems to be able to handle him.”

“I can stay?” Dick said in a small voice, ignoring the woman’s commentary. When Bruce nodded, Dick’s face broke into a wide grin. “I can stay! Yes! All right!”

“God help you,” the woman said archaically before shutting the door behind her. Bruce rolled his eyes and smiled fondly as Dick danced up the stairs and cart wheeled his way to his room. Alfred had promised a special dinner—more like suggested, but both Dick and Bruce had quickly caught on to his real meaning—if Dick’s stay became more… permanent. The butler had grown as fond as the boy as Bruce had these past few weeks.

“Read to me?” Dick asked when Bruce had gone to tuck the boy in that night. He looked hesitant and careful, like just asking Bruce this would somehow convince him to give him away. “If you’ve time.”

Bruce might not be good with kids, but he wasn’t _that_ abysmal. He pulled out his tablet. “What story?”

Dick’s eyes lit up. “King Arthur!”

Bruce took a sharp breath. Still, Arthurian Legends were some of the few true magical tales left in the muggle world. Dick’s interest made sense. Bruce pulled up a children’s e-book and began to read. He let Dick shuffle closer and felt his heart warm when the boy leaned into his side. Bruce inhaled sharply at the burst of magic. It felt good and light and marvelous; it felt like Bruce could do _anything_.

“…and then King Arthur was sent to Avalon,” Dick yawned, “to awaken in the world’s time of need.”

“The magical version is a little different,” Bruce told him. “He will awaken when magic returns.”

Dick didn’t respond, too busy dozing off. When he began breathing evenly with sleep, Bruce stroked his hair.

“Good night, Dick,” he whispered like he was telling a secret.

Then he got up, turned off the light, and quietly shut the door.

 

\--

 

_Take me up_ , one side of brilliant sword declared. Drawing it from its scabbard blinded its enemies with its immeasurably light, and King Arthur wielded it with pride as he charged into battle.

 

\--

 

For all the social worker’s talk of magical mishaps and explosive demonstrations of underage magic, Dick very rarely destroyed anything in Wayne Manor. The closest he came to destruction was during his and Alfred’s daily lessons, which the butler insisted Dick attend to prepare him for his magical schooling.

“But why did my potion _explode_ ,” Dick complained, wiping some dark pink goo off of his sleeve. Bruce, who had been watching beside them silently, offered him a towel. “I followed the instructions!”

“You did not,” Alfred said disapprovingly. He waved a wand over the small, kids-sized cauldron and disposed of the mess inside. “Potions work is a very exact art. The instructions called for you to stir it counter-clockwise, not clockwise.”

“But _why_ ,” Dick finished wiping the goo from his arms and chest. He handed the towel back to Bruce and yelped when the man put the towel back onto his head and scrubbed. “ _Bruce_!”

“Math and history in fifteen,” the man gave his ward a sharp grin, and Dick flopped down onto the chair with a moan. The boy was endlessly endearing. He wasn’t just a literal ball of magical light; his soul seemed to fill the dusty corners of Wayne Manor with light too. Filled the cracks in Bruce’s dark heart, and it scared him as much as it soothed him.

It was something to look forward to when he came back from patrol.

“The potion you taught Dick today,” he said, pulling the Batman cowl from his head. “Can you teach me?”

“Potions magic is different than the direct spells you’ve been reconstituting,” Alfred raised a brow. “I thought you gave up on that endeavor?”

“I want to try again,” Bruce said, not bothering to explain why.

So he followed the instructions exactly, all the while focusing on that near-constant buzz of Dick’s magic lying beneath the surface of his skin. Used his father’s wand to stir the mixture counter-clockwise and spoke the magical word at the end in flawless Latin.

The potion bloomed a deep red.

“My word,” Alfred gasped, more than startled. “How—Master Bruce—”

“Test it,” Bruce gestured at the cauldron. Alfred gave him a questioning glance, but obediently ladled the potion into a vial.

“It works,” Alfred marveled once he poured it onto a potted plant on the ground. The whole thing had been dyed a shocking red. “You’ve never accomplished anything like this before.”

“I still can’t change the core of the spell I’ve absorbed,” Bruce admitted. “But Dick—it’s not a spell I’m absorbing, it’s his magic. I feel like I can do anything with it.”

Alfred narrowed his eyes at him. “I certainly hope you haven’t kept him here for such a purpose, Master Bruce.”

“Of course not,” Bruce said, and was surprised to find himself telling the truth. Logically, the Batman should have no qualms keeping such a valuable asset at his side. But Bruce knew that he wouldn’t. Not when in doing so, he’d become the same monster R’as Al Ghul had been.

“I am glad to hear that, sir,” Alfred said, shoulders minutely relaxing. “I must say, this development opens far more opportunities for you. Perhaps you should sit in on Dick’s and my lessons more often. Give the Batman a wider arsenal to work with.”

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce said, and the butler bowed before taking his leave.

 

\--

 

Batman was clearly the most powerful wizard in Gotham City.

Rumor had it that any spell thrown at the Bat would simply cease to be, no matter how obscure or powerful the spell was. Only muggle weapons could hurt him, weapons the wizard supremacists he hunted were loathed to touch.

“This is my city,” the Bat growled and pointed his wand into the sky. The villains fled once the white symbol of the bat formed in the air. “And I won’t have your kind here.”

 

\--

 

Only a year or so after the Bat’s first appearance, the world at large discovered magic once more.

 

\--

 

“Metahumans,” Bruce read in the newspaper. “Humans who have demonstrated superpowers… muggles refusing to call it magic, of course. The Establishment must be having a heart attack. Too late to take it back now, though—that ‘Superman’ wizard’s already made headlines, and it’ll be impossible to obliviate everyone…”

“Superman’s pretty cool,” Dick said, though he obviously wasn’t paying attention. He was intently filling out his homework across the table, pink bottom lip caught between his teeth. Alfred set a tray of cookies between them, and Dick immediately reached out and snatched one up without looking.

“Dick,” Bruce chided.

“Thanks Alfred,” Dick threw out off-hand, taking a huge bite from the cookie and frowning down at his next math problem. “Hey, can I get some hot cocoa?”

“So much sugar at this hour?” Alfred raised a brow but turned to Bruce.

Feeling indulgent, Bruce nodded. Dick beamed at him from across the table.

“A small cup,” Bruce added, which didn’t faze the boy at all.

“Cocoa, cocoa, cocoa,” Dick chanted quietly to himself, and took another big bite out of his cookie. He frowned at his paper again and erased something. Bruce waited, though he knew from previous experience that Dick wouldn’t ask for his help.

The boy could be proud and stubborn and eager to please; and while Bruce glowed with pride whenever Dick accomplished the impossible, he also felt guilty whenever Dick’s expression fell when he couldn’t.

One cannot expect children to always accomplish the impossible. That was absurd.

Bruce didn’t know how to put that sentiment into words, and could only sigh and turn back to his newspaper. Surprisingly, no one in the American Wizarding world could name this Superman’s true identity. He had to have attended one of the dozens of schools across the country, and that was his photo splashed across the front page.

Superman waved at the camera, dressed in some garish costume with his face completely exposed. Bruce’s costume cloaked him at night, mimicking what a wizard’s cloaking charm would have done; Superman’s made him a giant neon target.

He was mulling over how _stupid_ that was when he saw Dick reach out for the cup of cocoa from the corner of his eye. The boy wasn’t looking again, and then—

“Ow!” Dick jumped back when he spilled the hot chocolate over himself and his homework. Tears welled up in his eyes.

Bruce reacted instinctively.

It was stupid, in hindsight, almost like he had wanted Dick to know.

He reached across the table and grabbed the boy’s lobster-red arm. Dick whimpered at the contact, but Bruce didn’t have his father’s wand on him and direct contact always worked best.

_“Episkey,”_ he whispered, drawing from the jealously hoarded store of Dick’s magic inside him. Dick stopped his whimpering when the burn faded into nothing. Just stared at Bruce open-mouthed.

“You didn’t use a wand,” was the first thing that came out of his mouth. And then, a split moment later, he snatched his hand away and said, “You used _magic_!”

“Dick—” Bruce started and suddenly had the newspaper flung in his face.

“You said you weren’t a _wizard_ , Bruce, but you are!” Dick gave him a betrayed look, one that bordered on outrage. Of all the reactions Bruce had expected, this wasn’t it. Confusion, most likely, and wonder if he was very lucky. But anger? “You lied to me!”

“I’m not a wizard.”

“You used magic!”

“Yes, but not in the way a wizard…”

“You kept saying you couldn’t keep me ‘cause you’re a squib, but you’re _not!_ Was that an—an excuse, and you only kept me because I had nowhere else to go? Why?” and Dick’s eyes were growing wide and wet. “Why didn’t you want me?”

_I’ll always want you,_ Bruce thought—right when that damned electric feeling crawled across his skin. There was a great crack, and Bruce barely had time to flinch back before the kitchen table split apart down the middle. Each plate shattered into perfect halves; each cookie disintegrated into fine powder. Tears welled up in the boy’s eyes, and Bruce heard the furniture around them begin to groan.

“Dick!” he snapped, and grabbed the boy’s hands again.

The groaning stopped, because all that wild magic was running into Bruce. It felt like he’d been struck by _lightning_. He hissed and fell to his knees.

“Bruce?” Dick’s scared voice called from above him. Lithe hands scrabbled at his shoulders, tried to lift him up, but Bruce’s insides felt like they were being liquefied. “Bruce? Bruce, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—Alfred!”

Dick was crying, in panic and fear and guilt rather than anger. Bruce wanted to reassure him that he had every right to be angry. That Bruce, who had spent these last few months bonding with Dick with his frankness, had been hiding a secret far worse than being able to use a little magic.

If Dick thought Superman was cool, he considered to himself as he slipped into unconsciousness, what would he think of the Batman?

 

\--

 

Bruce woke up lying in the medical cot he kept in the Bat Cave. There was a strange odor in the air, the kind he only noticed when Alfred began drawing symbols onto the floor.

“Runeswork,” he’d tried to explain, but like Potions it was something too complicated for Bruce to recreate. He’d asked Alfred once to target him with a rune spell as an experiment, which the butler had refused. Complex magic like that was dangerous enough with a normal wizard; throwing a strange anomaly like Bruce into the mix was just asking for things to end badly.

(Bruce sprouting actual bat ears and wings maybe, like that awful apothecary employee who’d tried to reinvent the Animagus potion. The Man-Bat had been a thing of nightmares.)

As Bruce reminisced, he slowly became aware of something warm and heavy sprawled across his side. He blinked and noticed Alfred looking coolly down at him, sleeves rolled up and wrists covered in dark runes. He held a red amulet in his hand.

“I wasn’t aware you had a limit, sir,” the butler said. “I’d always assumed any excess magic you absorbed would simply bounce off of you, like it did before.”

“Dick’s magic affects me differently,” Bruce rasps. “I have to consciously bounce it off. He was so angry, and I wasn’t… I wasn’t prepared.”

“Interesting,” Alfred said, that single word laden with meaning. Bruce didn’t feel like parsing it out, especially not when the butler swung the amulet over Bruce’s chest. He hissed at the strange empty feeling it incited in his belly. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to hear I’ve discovered a work-around to your magic immunity. I wonder how long you’ll spend researching it this time, Master Bruce.”

He pulled the amulet back and placed it in a small vial.

“This amulet contains the excess magic that debilitated you,” Alfred said. “Direct spells have no effect on you, but it seems like amulet-related spells do.”

Of course. Bruce had already begun investigating the relationship between different magical conductors, and one rule had come up multiple times: even amulets warded against the best detection spells can be affected by another amulet of similar strength.

Bruce was basically a giant, living amulet; nothing short of another magical conductor could suck the magic out of him.

He held out a hand and Alfred dropped the vial into his palm.

“Three months,” Bruce said hoarsely.

Alfred raised a brow. “One.”

“That’s not enough time, Alfred.”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to make time,” the butler said, unrepentant. “Because Master Dick will be attending the local wizarding elementary school in a month, and I’m sure he’ll appreciate your slightly less divided attention.”

That’s when Bruce finally realized what the warm bundle against his side was. He looked down and saw Dick tucked against him in sleep, dried tear-tracks visible even in the low light.

“He knows, doesn’t he,” Bruce said, voice soft. They were in the bat-cave, for god’s sake.

“I can’t see how he wouldn’t,” Alfred said. “You really do love putting the bat symbol everywhere, Master Bruce.”

Bruce just frowned at him. Sure, he had the Batmobile and his Batchair and his Batarangs. And he’d just gotten Lucius to come visit and apply the near-permanent light charm on the wall shaped like a bat.

There were even _real bats_ living up above them, because when Bruce did something he didn’t do it halfway.

“I’m turning into a crazy bat guy, aren’t I,” he said flatly, and took Alfred’s telling silence for what it was.

 

\--

 

Bruce should really stop making mistakes like this. He’d been Batman for almost two years now, and every mistake he made cost someone something.

In this case, Dick’s peace of mind.

“He’s out there,” Dick shouted, completely unrepentant of the fact that he’d snuck into the Batcave and hacked into Bruce’s computer. The Grayson’s file was pulled up on the large monitor: a photo of John and Mary Grayson smiling at the camera; both the Police report and the Auror briefing scanned and copied into the server; and the photo of the wizard supremacist responsible for their death.

Tony Zucco.

“I’ve been tracking him,” Bruce informed the boy, despite knowing exactly what Dick was going to say next.

“I want to help!”

“Absolutely not,” Bruce snapped. “You’re _nine_ , you are far too young to be put in such danger—”

“—he killed my parents, Bruce!” Dick clenched his fists, and the monitor screen flickered. Electricity and magic didn’t mix well, and wouldn’t ever mix well until Wayne Enterprises finished their first wizard-friendly prototypes. Bruce reached over and picked Dick up before he blew out another perfectly good screen.

Dick growled and struggled when Bruce unrepentantly siphoned off his rampant magic.

“Dick,” Bruce chided.

“He’s _out there_ ,” and now Dick’s voice was sounding teary. “He’s still out k-killing people, and he needs to—he needs to _pay_ —”

“No,” Bruce said, perhaps too harshly. He released the boy and Dick ducked out of arm’s reach, arms crossed and head turned away. Nine-years-old and already proud enough to hide his tears. “I don’t fight crime for vengeance, Dick. Only justice. Vengeance has the tendency to turn one into as much a monster as the one you’re hunting.”

“Then he needs to get justice,” Dick said stubbornly, the only takeaway from Bruce’s rant. The man sighed. “And I want to _help_.”

“You’re a child.”

“And _you’re_ a squib!” Dick snapped. “What are you going to do when your magic runs out? What if they have a gun or—or—some other muggle weapon? You can’t absorb a knife to the chest!”

“I’ll be—”

“No!” and Dick had stayed long enough at the manor for Bruce to recognize that expression. It was the same expression he’d made when Bruce had tentatively suggested sending Dick to an exclusive private wizarding elementary out in upper New York State. Despite wanting to keep Dick close, he also wanted the best for the boy. Dick had flat-out refused, and when Bruce tried pressing the issue, the boy ran into the gardens and grew entire mountains of blue rose bushes that swallowed the fountain whole.

He’d been very apologetic to the butler once he’d calmed down, and far less apologetic towards Bruce.

Bruce rubbed his temple, realizing he’d already made his decision. He made it when he first showed his power in front of the boy; when he’d withstood Dick’s ire and in apology told him a secret only Alfred had ever known; when he’d led Dick around the Batcave and smiled at Dick’s wondrous expression.

“Alright,” he said, and Dick opened his mouth like he was going to argue before realizing that Bruce had _agreed_. “Alright, Dick. But you’ll need a name.”

Dick’s eyes lit up.

 

\--

 

The aurors were surprised to find the Zucco brothers strung up one day at the Gotham Auror Department, their wands placed out of reach. What was even more surprising was the young boy who had been perched atop a rooftop across the street.

He saluted the aurors and skipped away, and the more experienced wizards on the force recognized the distinct silhouette of Batman’s cowl in the distance.

 

\--

 

“You cannot continue using magic in front of muggles!” Gotham Division Head Auror Gordon shouted at Batman’s broad back. “The paperwork was bad enough before, trying to keep the muggles from getting too suspicious, but now it’s even worse. The magic reveal is _too new_ …”

“So if I see a man about to _Crucio_ a muggle woman, you expect me to just walk away,” Batman said flatly, turning to look at the fuming auror. “Magic is no longer a secret, Auror Gordon. And if crime is happening, I will use every weapon in my disposal to seek justice.”

Gordon just shook his head. “Just because the world knows doesn’t mean we don’t still have to coordinate with the muggle politicians—we’ve kept our worlds separate for too long. The muggle police has made it clear—”

“I’m a vigilante, Auror Gordon,” Batman said. He turned his head slightly left at the telling flutter of a cape. “I do what’s right, not what society expects of me.”

“I’m not your enemy here,” Gordon said, which was when Robin popped up from the fire escape with a large meowing Kneazle cradled in his arms.

“Here’s your runaway, Mr. Gordon,” the boy said cheerfully, and let go of the hissing poofball once the auror pointed his wand at it. It floated reluctantly into the carrier at Gordon’s feet and meowed once the door was shut and locked. “Though I don’t know why you didn’t just _Accio_ it out of the pipe.”

“It’s never a good idea to _Accio_ living objects, son,” Auror Gordon picked the carrier up. “A gentler charm works best, but the critter’s got to be in sight for it work.”

“Magic makes no sense,” Robin complained, and winced when Batman glared at him. Gordon already had enough suspicions that the Boy Wonder wasn’t a wizard born and raised. The boy escaped further glaring by leaping onto Batman’s back and perching on a broad shoulder. He waved, “Buh-bye now, Mr. Gordon!”

“Batman—” Gordon said, but the Dark Knight had already taken out his wand and stepped off the rooftop. The auror could only frown in frustration as the Batman and his Robin floated down the five-story drop.

Two years, and Gotham still wasn’t sure if the Batman was on their side. Gordon was sure, though, that he _was_ —but at what cost, he couldn’t say.

He sighed: the New Jersey Establishment wasn’t going to be happy about this either, he could already tell.

 

\--

 

(“Why don’t we just apparate,” Dick said when they returned to the Bat Cave. He threw off his domino mask and went through a series of complex flips, somersaults and stretches: his usual cool-down after a good patrol. “It’s faster.”

“Apparation leaves a magical trail that’s easily trackable,” Bruce said. “And spells that circumvent that don’t work on me.”

He strode over the computers and tapped the chair beside him. Dick reluctantly pulled himself up to write his mission briefing. Bruce called it an exercise in detective skills, communication and data filing; Dick called it Bat Homework.

“We don’t just have to be careful of the muggle way of investigating,” Bruce explained. “Magical investigation is just as much of a threat. The worlds might be merging, but right now we’ve still got a foot on both sides.”

“Well I don’t feel like a wizard,” Dick said, despite finally yanking a teacup across the table earlier that day. On _purpose_. Alfred had practically glowed with pride. “I just feel like me.”

Bruce sighed. “You’ll see what I mean when you start elementary next week.”

Dick groaned and sank to the floor, because being sent to school was clearly like being sent to the gallows. And because Bruce was feeling indulgent, he let Dick roll around the floor for a few minutes before prodding him with a foot.

“Shower,” he ordered, and Dick just rubbed his dust-covered hair all over his cape in retaliation.)

 

\--

 

Bruce received a letter from an irate-looking owl just two hours after he’d dropped Dick off at the Little Gotham Elementary for Wizards

The boy looked up from his seat when Bruce entered the principal’s office. He jumped up from his chair and ran to his guardian, not that Bruce needed his touch to feel the crackling, angry magic pouring off Dick in waves.

“What happened,” he got right to the point, and the principal and Dick’s homeroom teacher shared a look.

“Mr. Grayson had an… altercation with one of the other students during second period. Which we could have handled if…”

“If Dick hadn’t summoned a whirlwind that blew through two classrooms and almost destroyed the wards in the foundation,” the teacher, tone a bit too accusatory for Bruce’s liking.

“I didn’t do it on _purpose_ ,” the boy burst out, looking up at his guardian with pleading eyes. “I just got so _mad_ , and then it got out of control, and he called me a _mudblood_ , you think I don’t know what that means? I didn’t mean to—to destroy the room…”

“I know,” Bruce said. He glanced at the ladies. “I hope the other child was disciplined accordingly?”

“Of course, but Mr. Wayne, this kind of wild magic…”

“Wayne Enterprises will compensate you for the damage. Now if there’s nothing else, I’d like to take Dick home for the day,” Bruce gently tugged Dick along with him the door, and was irritated when the principal just kept talking.

“I just want to make it clear,” she said. “This school isn’t equipped to deal with extreme magical disturbances. If the issue isn’t resolved, I’m afraid attendance here will be out of the question for Mr. Grayson.”

“I see,” Bruce gave her a smile that was actually more of a grimace, and seethed the entire drive home.

“There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there,” Dick whispered once they arrived, and Bruce squeezed his hand. They were walking up the Manor steps for a change, taking the scenic route through the garden rather than parking right into the Bat Cave. “Not just the—the muggle thing.”

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” Bruce said, his anger at the principal giving way to absolute fury at himself. “This is my fault, Dick. I forgot that your magic is easily affected by other magical people and things. We just have to find a way to compensate for that.”

“No one else has that problem,” Dick said, looking away. “Why do I?”

Bruce didn’t have a good answer to that, and so he said nothing. He let Alfred shepherd the sulking boy into the kitchen and headed to his study: he wasn’t resting until he found a work-around.

Bruce was good at finding work-arounds.

 

\--

 

“I don’t _like_ it,” Dick snapped, wrestling the elegant Wayne Enterprise pin off his shirt and tossing it onto the table. “It makes me feel weird.”

“You can’t attend wizarding elementary without it.”

“Then I’ll attend muggle elementary.”

“And you’ll just grow up muggle?” Bruce folded his newspaper and raised a brow at the boy. “Never learning to control your magic, having to run the risk of exploding whenever you pass a witch or a wizard?”

Dick crossed his arms and looked away. Bruce sighed and picked up the pin. He beckoned the boy closer and secured the hidden amulet to his right breast. Dick shivered. He shivered again when Bruce patted his shoulders to make sure the amulet-pin was absorbing excess magic as it should.

Sure enough, the man could barely sense the magic that normally rolled off Dick in waves. It was unsettling how different the boy felt, but that didn’t matter.

“I’m not wearing this at home,” Dick finally compromised, and Bruce frowned. “I’m not! It makes me feel—it makes me feel _dull_ and _cold_ , and I’ll wear it to school but that’s it.”

“Fine,” Bruce said. Dick unfastened the pin and dropped it into the stasis box that neutralized its effects. After stuffing it into his pocket, Dick sighed and pressed his face into Bruce’s shoulder.

“I don’t like it,” he said, voice laden with guilt. Like he’d failed Bruce by not accepting the amulet like a good little soldier, and if that didn’t just stab the man in the heart. “It doesn’t feel good; not like it does with you.”

“I can’t be around all the time,” Bruce told him almost gently, because it was true. Dick clung to him because he was a child, but his adolescent years were going to end eventually. He had to keep Dick’s best interests in mind, even if the dark part of his soul loathed letting the boy go.

 

\--

 

(Except Dick’s magic was as enamored with him as Dick was. Every patrol it curled around him, through him, and Bruce had to curb his natural urge to absorb it all or else he risked collapsing on a rooftop.

“Robin,” he said when the boy climbed up a flagpole and swung around on it. “Control your magic—you don’t want to exhaust yourself before we find the culprits.”

“I never feel exhausted,” Robin declared. He grinned down at his guardian. “Stop worrying, B.”

Which was, in hindsight, true. Dick’s magical problem had little effect on the boy’s abilities in the classroom or on patrol; something Bruce hadn’t realized until now.

Clearly, he had a huge blind spot when it came to his ward.

“If he operates like a normal wizard while leaking magic,” Alfred said when Bruce finally mustered up the courage to approach him while Dick was at school, “he must be incredibly powerful if he learns to control it.”

Bruce clenched his fists. “My indulging him… absorbing that magic he can’t control. It’s holding him back.”

Alfred gave him a very shrewd, very careful look. Bruce resisted the urge to wince; of everyone who knew, the butler had the best chance of seeing right through him. “If I may speak frankly, sir?”

Like Bruce would be able to stop him.

“I do not believe Master Dick cares much about being powerful,” Alfred said. “What he cares about is feeling accepted and safe, like any other boy his age. Perhaps he can train himself to control his magic in the future, but right now, Master Dick needs you.”

And really, Alfred could even make his suggestions sound like thinly veiled scolding. Bruce sighed and nodded at the butler, and Alfred took the dismissal as it was.

When Dick got home from school that day and tore off his amulet, he ran right into Bruce’s study and jumped into his lap. Rather than push him off and scold him like the last few times, Bruce just wrapped his arms around the boy’s waist.

Let Dick babble on and on about plants and magic and the talking portraits, and cherished the moment while he still could.)

 

\--

 

No one was prouder than Alfred Pennyworth when Dick graduated elementary in a shower of sparks.

“Top honors,” Dick beamed, showing Bruce his final report card. “And Franklin thought he could beat me in charms! Don’t even get me started on the technology courses—they’re such a joke. Those wizards don’t know the first thing about computers or cell phones or—or—even _televisions_. They’re living under a rock!”

“Wayne Enterprise is launching their first wizard-friendly devices next year,” Bruce told the excited boy. “Go easy on the purebloods, Dick. There’s no way they can install anything in their century-old manors.”

Dick’s smile faltered, and Bruce wondered what exactly he’d done now. He looked at Dick’s suddenly subdued expression. He looked at the report card in his hands.

He reached out and a put his hand on Dick’s shoulder.

“Good work, Dick,” he said, and knew he’d done the right thing when Dick’s whole body seemed to light up in joy.

“Can I get an owl, Bruce?” Dick said excitedly, leaping into his arms and squeezing him tight. “Olympia’s got two, and they’re _really big_ and it would be so cool!”

“You have a cell phone,” Bruce reminded him, and allowed himself to squeeze back for just a moment. He watched with a fond smile as Dick ran off to the kitchens.

His smile vanished as he turned back to his desk.

It was covered in pamphlets. Wizarding school pamphlets.

There was the classic grade 6 to 12 that took after Britain’s Hogwarts or France’s Beauxbatons. There were a couple that were high school only, and even fewer that allowed the students to commute from home.

After this next summer break, Bruce was going to have to say goodbye to Dick for most of the year. His heart thumped. He wasn’t _ready_.

One paper on the table was different from the rest. It was for Bruce, not Dick, and wasn’t a pamphlet at all. It was a letter.

Head Auror Gordon had handed it to the Batman the last time they met, and he’d been more than suspicious when he unrolled the parchment and saw that that its sender was supposedly Superman himself.

Or Clark Kent, as the letter revealed.

_My secret identity is hidden under a Fidelius Charm,_ the man had written, _so anyone who is not the Batman of Gotham will not be able to even read my name. There is a chance that the Batman is too broad a term, in which case I apologize if the above looks like gibberish. I wanted to be frank with a fellow wizard who cares about all people and not just those with magic in their veins. You may have heard whispers, and it is true: the Establishment is indeed considering setting up this ‘Justice League’ to bridge the gap between the wizards and muggles. It is a movement that we hope can bring peace to both worlds. It would be my pleasure if you agreed to join our ranks._

There was more, but Bruce got the gist of it. He’d heard of this Justice League, but it had seemed too fraught with uncertainty for him to immediately be on board. Bruce worked alone. And with Robin, true, but their roles as mentor and student were clear-cut. These were equals, wizards and witches who had their own conflated idea on what justice was.

He steepled his hands at his desk.

Perhaps he needed to pay this ‘Clark Kent’ a visit.

 

\--

 

“What are you,” Bruce growled the moment he’d arrived on Kent’s balcony in Metropolis. Kent had started, surprised, especially when the Batman refused to come inside. “You’re not human.”

“I _am_ ,” Kent tried to say, but Bruce shook his head. “I mean—how did you—fine. Are you sure you don’t want to come inside?”

“No,” Bruce shifted and discreetly tried to touch the man’s magic again. He barely kept from recoiling. It wasn’t bad so much as it was completely foreign, and therefore unpalatable. “Explain.”

Kent took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. “Have you heard of the prophecy about King Arthur? How he'll return when magic comes back to the world?”

“Clearly untrue. Magic continued on.”

“Yes, but separate from muggles. We coexisted once in Camelot, but when the kingdom fell the worlds cleaved into two. It's less of magic returning and more of... well. Magic coming out of hiding," and the man paused. "Like it's started to this past year."

"You're the one who brought magic into the light," Bruce said flatly. He considered his words carefully and decided he had nothing to lose. "Not me."

"That's... my fault, actually. To save Camelot before its destruction, Merlin hid the kingdom away. He cast a spell that would reincarnate Camelot's most important minds sometime in the future, so that they may bring it back once it was safe again,” Clark paused and actually looked embarrassed. “But there were… problems with his spellwork.”

Batman waited.

“Everyone else reincarnated, but Merlin intended to arrive as an adult to look after them,” Clark shrugged. “It was vanity in the end, you know. He wanted to be younger than a hundred, obviously. Tried to go for thirty, but ended up arriving as three instead.”

Batman stared. It couldn’t be.

“Thank god I landed in a corn field and not in the ocean,” Clark said, which was Batman had the sudden urge to smack this man across the head. It would have been an absurd claim if he couldn’t taste the man’s foreign— _ancient_ , a purer form of magic he’d ever encountered—magic himself.

“You met _Merlin_!” Dick had shouted the next day when he’d snooped through Bruce’s study and found his invitation to the Justice League. He’d then refused to leave until Bruce explained. “That’s _amazing_!”

“It’s frustrating is what it is,” Bruce muttered, stabbing his pen a bit too hard into the parchment. “Just because he’s _Merlin_ doesn’t mean he can go around breaking rules left and right. The Justice League will never get off the ground if he and his friends don’t play by the rules.”

“Well yeah,” Dick shrugged and leaned over Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce twitched at the gentle brush of Dick’s magic rather than its usual torrent. The boy had been spending these summer months working on his control, motivated entirely by the fact that better control meant less time with the amulet. “But it’s _Merlin._ ”

Bruce should’ve known that Dick would idolize the only wizard he’d learned about from his muggle days; it only made his suspicions towards Merlin’s—Clark’s—intentions worse.

Least of all because he hated sharing Dick’s attention with _anyone_.

 

\--

 

Given the circumstances, Bruce found the round table at the current Justice League headquarters ironic. Especially because they were far from equal.

“All you wizards running this League of yours!” Green Arrow slammed his fist onto the table. “How do we know you’ve got us normal folk’s interests at heart?”

“Wizards are just as normal as muggles,” Superman said tersely. “And of course we care about muggles—most of the wizards here protect muggles from magic they have no defense against.”

“You saying a wizard can stop a bullet or a tank or any number of tech we muggles have?” He tugged an arrow out of his quiver and waved it at the man. “We’re more than capable of taking care of ourselves. Just give us the knowledge and we’ll rise to the challenge.”

“The last thing we need is Luthor getting a hold of magical theory books,” Superman countered, and the Green Arrow threw his hands up in frustration.

Batman, for his part, just sat silently observing. To be honest, he agreed with Oliver: there _were_ too many magical folk in the League.

“That’s enough,” he said, standing up from the table. Just because he agreed didn’t mean there was anything to be done. It took time for muggles to develop tech, and in the meantime only fellow wizards could even the playing field when it came to wizard-on-muggle violence. “Contact me when there is a crisis. I have enough matters in Gotham to take care of.”

“Batman,” Superman followed him even as he strode out of the conference room. Bruce stifled a sigh and turned to glower at the man. The—what term should Bruce use? Camelotian? Arthurian?—wizard crossed his arms. “Being part of the League means working together. You can’t keep swanning off like that.”

“I can do what I like,” Batman said shortly. “And you’re deluding yourself if you call that working together.”

“I’m _trying_ —”

“Then try harder,” Bruce turned around again and walked right out the door.

And that’s how things went for a good while, with the muggle world fearful of the wizards “protecting” them and the wizards angry that this Justice League was on the muggles’ side and the Justice League members themselves squabbling like self-important children. Bruce made every excuse to stay at home because no matter how rowdy Dick got, the boy was better behaved than any member in that damn League.

It took a second imminent world-invasion for him to thaw out a bit.

There was nothing like a dimensional crisis to unite people. Too many muggles unintentionally opening artifacts or creating _portals to another dimension_ meant the arrival of creatures that could wipe their universe out entirely.

“I need a list of all the dimensional creatures you know,” he told Superman flatly. “So we can create contingencies the next time a portal opens between our dimensions.”

“You know I don’t actually have a lot of Merlin’s memories,” Clark said flatly. “But I can ask the spellbook Merlin left behind. It’s a jerk, though, so it might not tell us much.”

“Let me talk to it,” Bruce said, and frowned when Clark got a bit defensive and went on about his spellbook being a precocious thing that had the tendency to curse anyone not-Merlin halfway to Sunday.

Bruce itched to discover if that kind of curse would even affect him, but kept his curiosity to himself for now. Neither Alfred nor Dick would ever forgive him if he got zapped into dust by a moldy book. Research the magical theory first, _then_ steal Clark’s book.

Good plan.

 

\--

 

Bad plan.

Because Superman had been ravaged by the awful creature from a mirror Avalon and was now near-death with his magic coming apart at the seams. Bruce needed that damn book to fix it.

No one knew where it was.

In the end, Bruce had to guide Dick through a complex rune ritual to summon the artifact, which was awful on so many levels. Dick was _eleven_ , he was too young to be conducting such risky magic. He would have asked Alfred, but the spell required an “innocent’s” magic—old-speak for virgin. And he wasn’t about to reveal to the Justice League his strange powers.

“I can do it,” Dick insisted, standing in the middle of the circle. He seemed completely at ease of the fact that Bruce had painted several ancient runes across his face and neck. “Merlin can’t _die_ —Arthur hasn’t come back yet.”

“Dick,” Bruce said.

“I’ll be fine, B,” Dick gave him a mischievous grin. “I memorized all the symbols and gestures, yeah.”

“Dick,” Bruce repeated. The boy’s expression sobered. Bruce continued, “No matter what happens, you can’t stop the ritual. Even if it seems like all hope is loss, _don’t stop the ritual_.”

Robin tilted his chin up. “I won’t, B. I promise.”

 

\--

 

Bruce shouldn’t have let Dick walk into that circle.

 

\--

 

“Bruce!” Dick shouted, stumbling back from the book that had materialized above him. Bruce had known something was wrong the moment it appeared; the moment its strange, foreign magic filled the cave and it opened its pages.

Rather than sitting placidly as it had always done, it took one look at Dick and started _eating him alive_.

“Dick!” Bruce roared, trying his best to reach the rune circle. The book blasted him back with such a strong magical wave that Bruce gagged. He couldn’t absorb it. He couldn’t do anything. Dick cried out and fell to his knees, shrinking into himself as the book took—as the book _drained_ him, and kept draining him.

If Bruce didn’t do something now, Dick was going to die.

Panic clutched his chest, followed closely by fury. Fury at himself, at Superman lay dying under a stasis spell at headquarters, at this goddamn evil book that was going to take away the only light in Bruce’s life.

“ _Stop_!” Bruce shouted, and felt himself open up. He’d never let his absorption powers take so much control before; it was like the doors to his soul were flung wide open. He’d planned to absorb the magic in the rune circle, a feat he’d never done before. If he succeeded, though, he could enter that trap and haul Dick out himself. Perhaps even trade his own life for the boy’s.

But instead—instead the book took one look at his soul and _shrieked_.

“I demand you _stop_ ,” Bruce, never one to give up an advantage, stalked forward. Dick slumped onto the ground once the book’s attention was off of him, but Bruce forced himself to focus on the artifact. It was still here and still dangerous. “I demand you stop. You will not hurt anyone in this household. You will not hurt anyone the Justice League sees fit to read you. And you will _never_ ,” he stressed the last part, “ _never_ touch Dick again.”

The book shuddered once, twice, and then fell to the ground with an anti-climatic thud.

Bruce breathed heavily for a single moment, and then he was running to Dick’s side. He gathered the pale, limp boy into his arms and pressed his hand to his neck. It took far too long for him to sense a pulse, and when he did Bruce almost cried in relief.

“Master Bruce,” Alfred said. He hadn’t even noticed the butler entering the cave.

“He’s alive,” Bruce said. He lifted Dick’s body up and rushed him to the med bay. “Alfred—Alfred please, you have to help him.”

“And I will,” Alfred said. “You, on the other hand, have a certain hero to save.”

Bruce gave him an incredulous look. “I can’t leave Dick here.”

“I’m afraid you must. The stasis spell on Mister Kent will wear off in less than an hour; there’s no time to waste.”

Bruce roared and threw the chair against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and placed his hand on Dick’s cold, clammy arm.

And then he stood up, stormed back to the circle and picked up the goddamn book.

“I’ll be back soon,” he said, and with one last guilty touch to Dick’s forehead, he went off to the floo.

 

\--

 

Bruce wouldn’t realize it until later, not until after he and a revived Clark apparated to the International Dimensional Gate in DC and strong-armed the wizarding technician into setting it to the mirrored Avalon. Forcing Doomsday back to the other side took them and the entire Justice League’s help, and it wasn’t until Bruce was leaning against the wall completely drained that he realized something chilling.

Both times he’d touched Dick, he’d felt nothing at all.

 

\--

 

When he made it home, one look at Alfred’s face confirmed his worst fears.

 

\--

 

“I can’t,” Clark said flatly.

Bruce bristled, his entire pose taunt with anger. “It took it away; make it give it back.”

“I _can’t_. The book has a mind of its own. It's more Merlin than me, sometimes, and even if I knew why it attacked Dick, there’s no way I can force it—”

“There’s _always_ a way,” Bruce snarled. “We just need to find it.”

“It’s a miracle in itself that the boy even lived,” Clark’s voice was soft and somewhat teary. He hadn’t known Dick very well, but he and the rest of League were well aware of how much the boy meant to the Bat.

Bruce turned his face away. Breathed angrily, shakily while looking at the window.

“Oh Arthur,” Clark said. He was so horribly genuine. “I’m so sorry.”

“You’re _always_ sorry,” Bruce said, and turned to stalk out of the conference room. Anything so that that god-awful wizard couldn’t see him break down, not when his reputation in the JLA hung on by a thread.

 

\--

 

Dick hadn’t said a word since he’d woken up.

He’d just slipped out of bed and into Bruce’s study. He’d crawled, trembling, into Bruce’s lap and pillowed his head on his chest.

It was _wrong_ how this much contact evoked… nothing. None of the usual magic-siphoning feelings. And as much as Bruce ached for it, he worried about Dick more.

Bruce hadn’t realized until now how much he relied on that bond to comfort the boy. Without it, he felt helpless. Distraught. _Angry_.

“I’ll find a way,” the Batman said, voice deceptively calm. And once the Dark Knight decided to do something—he did it.

 

\--

 

_Cast me away_ , the other side of the brilliant sword declared. Those who feared its power submerged it into the watery depths of the lake, hiding it from the world so that its magic couldn't be used again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Waynes are a well-known pureblooded family in Gotham. By the time Bruce discovered magic, the Waynes had long removed themselves from the magical world and its stigma against squibs. Since Bruce became an important bridge between the muggle and wizarding world, the wizards are a bit more open to forgiving him.
> 
> The Magical Establishment is the American equivalent of the Ministry of Magic. Kind of tickled that Gotham's most likely in Jersey. And the very British Arthurian legend is in America because... well. Because Clark crash-landed in America and all the Round Table members popped up around him. Trust me, the UK is pretty miffed about that too.
> 
> Reincarnated identities will become clearer next chapter ;)


	2. Part Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dick liked it, but wasn’t naïve enough to think it was normal. Nothing about them was normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone. Here, have some porn :P
> 
> It's been a while since I've written explicitly inappropriate BruDick, but it's kind of par for course here. Lots of pining teenage Dick and emotionally constipated Bruce, with a dash of complicated plot to mix things up. The characters here were inspired greatly by the Batman: Animated Series and the Young Justice cartoons (especially the less dark version of Bruce, which I took from B:AS because that version actually had a sense of humor) and everything else came from... everywhere else, haha.
> 
> Kudos to everyone who guessed that Dick was Excalibur! I wanted it to be a bit of a mystery in the first chapter, but as you all can see it's pretty much a front and center thing in this chapter. Thanks so much for the support so far, guys. This chapter hints at the title a bit more...
> 
> EDIT: Made some significant edits to the plot-heavy parts, hopefully things make a little more sense!

Water rushed at him from all sides. It filled his mouth and throat and lungs until he choked, until all he could see past the pain was the twisted grimace of a beautiful, dark-haired woman and a silent boy by her hip. He gasped for air and swallowed lake water instead, and he scrabbled at the woman’s hand around his neck.

“Morgana—” he gasped, “Morgana, _please_.”

"I'm sorry, Excalibur," the woman said, not sounding sorry at all. "It's nothing personal."

Her Dark-filled eyes were as cold as ice as she watched the life bleed right out of him. He couldn't free himself, not with the stone shackling his feet and pulling him under, and soon the last of his magic slipped into the sea foam. It was no longer of any use to his king.

His Arthur.

 

\--

 

Dick woke up with a strangled yell, thrashing in his blankets and upending his cup onto the floor with a crack. He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped for air. Meditative breaths: in and out, in and out. Just like the Batman had taught him. He instinctively reached out with his magic to reassure himself Bruce was fine—and came up with nothing.

His heart dropped. Right. 

“Bruce,” he slipped across the hall and into his guardian’s room. He crawled under soft, silk sheets and pressed a cheek to Bruce’s chest, letting the steady rhythm of his heart ease his own fears. The man shifted in question. On a good day, Bruce just curled a sleepy arm around his waist and let him snuggle against him.

On a bad day, Bruce blinked awake long enough to push him back with a sigh.

“Dick,” he’d growl. “You’re too old for this.”

“Please,” Dick would whine. He nuzzled his cheek and breathed in Bruce's comfortable scent. Wrapped his arms around his neck and cuddled close, aching so much for the bond that had once ran through them it hurt. Tactility was a poor substitute, but it was all he had. “I don't... I don’t want to sleep alone.”

Bruce would let him fall asleep there but not stay the night. Dick would inevitably wake up tucked in his own bed, having been carried there sometime after drifting off. It was cold and lonely and he didn't want to get up, and Alfred would have to come force him out in time for school.

It was so much better waking up to Bruce’s warm presence beside him, even if most mornings were Bruce pushing him unceremoniously away and Dick whining “Nooo…” like he could stop the sun from rising. Bruce would usually come out of the shower and whap him with a wet towel because school started in half an hour. If he felt especially clingy, he'd snuggle deeper into the blankets. Bruce would run his hand through his hair and down his neck.

"Up," he commanded, and then flicked the skin between his shoulder-blades.

Dick liked it, but wasn’t naïve enough to think it was normal. Nothing about them was normal.

Today, thankfully, was a good day. Bruce shifted a bit but fell back asleep without a word, and Dick tucked his head under his chin and breathed.

 

\--

 

“The Teen Titans initiative you brought to my attention last week,” Bruce said over breakfast. He’d left Dick snoozing under the covers and had freshened up in record time, in complete contrast to Dick’s disheveled, sleepy state at the table. Dick blinked owlishly at him over his orange juice, his cereal bowl cleaned out and toast half-eaten. “I think it’s a good idea for you to meet more kids your age.”

“’M not a kid,” Dick mumbled immediately. He narrowed his eyes at Bruce. "You're just  _old_."

"I am old. Finish your toast."

"Neither of you are old," Alfred intervened from the kitchen, eyebrows raised. "You just turned twenty-six, Master Bruce."

" _Twenty-six_ ," Dick said, and kicked Bruce's shins under the table. Bruce, clearly proving himself to be the adult in the room, kicked him back.

" _Boys_ ," Alfred bore down on them with the wrath of a butler wronged, and Bruce immediately cleared his throat and went to ready himself for the office. Dick hid his toast under a napkin. Bruce came back downstairs and ruffled his hair on his way out the door, and Dick scowled at him. He _wasn't_ a kid. He could still be useful.

He waved his hand at the dirty dishes and then caught himself with a flush. Alfred had the tact to pretend not to notice, even when Dick picked up the dishes and dropped them unceremoniously into the sink with a frustrated clatter.

"Your tie, Master Dick," the butler chided him once Dick came back downstairs in his Gotham Academy uniform. "Hold still."

He waved his wand, and Dick pretended not to feel a stab of longing when the butler's magic straightened his clothes. It was unreasonable to expect Alfred to hold off using spells for his everyday upkeep of Wayne Manor, not with the constant messes he and Bruce brought home every night after patrol.

"Thanks Alfie," he pasted on a grin and shouldered on his backpack. Then, with steely resolve, he quietly stepped out the door.

 

\--

 

(Robin the Muggle Wonder was a role-model for children, apparently. The Gazette called him a pivotal step towards smoothing relations between wizards and muggles, especially in a time when muggles felt largely powerless against magical villains.

No one mentioned the Dark Knight's previous protégé. The wizard had patrolled without a brightly-dressed partner by his side for months, after all, and most people had assumed the worse.

So when the muggles saw that wily, magic-less acrobat twirling about Batman with nothing but his talent keeping him flying in the air, they were thrilled. 

"Robin's a hero, too," the muggle children would say. " _He_ can fight bad guys just like Batman can. And he doesn't even have magic."

Dick didn't have the heart to correct them. It was true. He fought Gotham's worst wizarding supremecists with nothing but his fists and wits and memories spent twirling in the circus, because he'd spent nine whole years there before discovering magic. Falling back to that time wasn't impossible, even if it routinely gave Bruce a heart attack whenever he scaled a dangerous jump.

"I'm  _fine_ ," Dick snapped. "You know I can make it!"

Batman just glared at him from under his cowl. Dick wanted to smack him. It wasn't like Bruce wasn't reckless either, given that most of his "magic" was actually clever trickery with gadgets and tech. His only real fallback were the spells Alfred cast on him before every patrol, but even those were limited.

That fact didn't stop Bruce from leaving him behind. And it didn't stop Dick from fighting him on the subject. Even though he brushed up on his martial arts, physical training, and magical theory to compensate for what he lacked—it wasn't ever enough.)

 

\--

 

Being scolded by Bruce was the worst. Being scolded by Bruce in front of _Merlin and the Round Table?_

"Focus on the Teen Titans," Batman overrode his protests, face unreadable beneath his mask. "We'll talk about this later."

"Sorry, kid," Superman mouthed, like this wasn't mortifying enough. Robin stood stiffly by as Bruce threw zeta powder into the massive gateway carved into the wall. The platform roared to life once he called out a destination, and one-by-one the other heroes stepped through the portal and into the dimension beyond.

Fury ran through him as Dick aggressively hacked into the main console; as he pulled up and emailed to his tablet Clark's schematics for the pocket dimension he'd created known as the Watchtower. If he could figure out the theory behind his magic, then maybe— _maybe—_ Bruce would let them be partners again.

“Robin," Roy Harper's voice drew him from his reverie. "Robin!"

"What?" Dick looked up from the tablet he'd been working on, brow furrowed in frustration.

"Sure we can't sock 'em in the jaw?" the older teenager jerked his chin in the direction of the other heroes in the cafeteria muttering “just ‘cause he’s Batman’s kid” and “what do they think a group of _muggles_ can do?” like being magic-less meant they were deaf.

"They'll just curse you," Dick told him. "And then Oliver'll throw a fit, and Bruce will yell at us for the Teen Titans acting immature again. No thanks."

"Doesn't mean they don't deserve a good punch."

“Just remember we've got the upper-hand here, Speedy. Two things, man: TV and video games,” Kid Flash drawled from Robin’s other side. He was playing on his phone, fingers flying so fast and furious Dick was surprised the glass didn't just shatter. “Put a wizard in front of an episode of _House_ and bam! The WE tech’ll go flying right off the shelf.”

Dick rolled his eyes, “Like anyone with a GED couldn’t solve those mysteries in their sleep.”

Wally gasped, “Blasphemy! Take it back, you scoundrel!”

“Horndog.”

“Daddy’s boy!”

“Shut up, both of you,” Roy snapped, catching sight of the beautiful witch they’d been waiting for. From the photo pulled up on Dick’s tablet, this was definitely Donna Troy, alias Wonder Girl. “Try and look professional, alright?”

“You just want to impress the new girl."

"Like you know the first thing about girls, kid," the older boy pinched Dick's side and smirked when he yelped. Like Dick wasn't perfectly aware of _crushes_ and _boners._ He was thirteen, he'd gotten hard before.

Besides, he’d slept cuddled next to Bruce for years and morning erections were a fact of life.

(And if there had been any doubt about it, Alfred had sat him down one day for a mortifying talk about puberty and bodily functions. That was fun.

Dick hadn't really questioned how good it felt to wake up plastered against Bruce. It always felt good, especially when he woke up hard and innocently pressing up against the older man's hip. He certainly didn't question it when Bruce began giving Dick more time in the bathroom, and Alfred's talk gave him an idea of why. So Dick would crawl under the welcoming shower and wrap a sleepy hand around his cock. He'd jerk off without really thinking about it, still drowsy and comfortable and able to smell Bruce’s aftershave on his skin.

And then once he was done and he was back in his t-shirt and boxers, he’d crawl back under the covers and doze until either Alfred or Bruce came to shake him awake for school.

It never felt weird to him, except it kind of was. It really, really was, but it wasn't like either he or Bruce were the pinnacle of healthiness to begin with.

And it wasn't any of his friends' business what he did.)

"Are you guys the Teen Titans?" Donna approached them with a soft smile, and Roy's expression went a bit soppy. Dick snorted into his tablet.

Seriously, and they thought _he_ was the naïve one.

 

\--

 

This must have been what Bruce had felt like the first time he'd been corralled into a room full of the ragtag "Justice League," full of the magical, the muggle, and everything in-between. Pandemonium.

"Themiscyra’s got the biggest Quidditch field in Europe,” Donna said excitedly, draped across the Titan Couch and smiling at a starstruck Wally. “Queen Hippolyta tried banning the sport from the island, but Diana convinced her otherwise. It’s the only time we’re allowed to leave, to compete in the World Tournament.”

“You’re saying Wonder Woman rides a broom around whacking balls out of the air?” Wally said dreamily, like the image itself was going to fry his brains. “Man, would I like to be a fly on _that_ wall.”

Roy called out from where he was lounging by the pool. Garth was lurking somewhere below, obviously too cool for landfolk gossip. “She’d spell your boogers into attacking you. Bat-boogers hex or something.”

“Bat- _bogey_ hex,” and when Roy threw him a look, Dick defended himself: “What? It’s British; British people say bogey.”

“British people are weirdos, then. Especially the wizarding ones.”

“That’s magicist,” Wally immediately countered, eyes flickering towards a mostly amused Donna. “I’m sure there are lots of nice, normal British Wizards out there. Not that we’ve met them. I mean, we’re muggles, we don’t usually meet wizards outside of local ones…”

Donna took pity on him. “And I don’t meet many muggles, either. We’re an all-witch society, after all. I’m curious about how you guys use magical artifacts. Your Speed Talisman..."

Dick liked Donna. She was fun and smart and was dependable enough for him to lean on, though the first few weeks he approached her with caution. Because she might _know._

Not even the Round Table knew who he was—who he used to be—and he preferred to keep it that way. Except Queen Hippolyta was one of the few living beings still alive from Camelot's time, and what she knew of their reincarnations was... enigmatic, to say the least.

"It's not the time for Camelot to return," she'd sent word through her daughter Diana when Bruce had requested counsel, like that wasn't ominous-sounding at all.

He'd been so concerned over Donna possibly knowing, Garth caught him completely off-guard when he asked after Bruce's absences.

"The Batman often goes on excursions outside the Justice League," Aqualad asked Dick from the pool, elbows propped alongside its edge and head cocked. "Why?"

Dick shrugged. He hadn't realized any of the others had noticed Bruce and Clark's frequent trips in search of... something. Destiny, prophecy, a unicorn farting rainbows. It was complicated, and it wasn't really his business.

"Camelot-related stuff," he finally said, and the merman just looked even more puzzled. He didn't bring it up again, however, and Dick felt pathetically relieved.

 

\--

 

(It was hard to put into words exactly how  _freeing_ the Titans were. How goddamn light he felt without the ghost of his magical self looming over his head or the overbearing legend of Excalibur weighing on his shoulders. How it felt to be treated as a  _competent leader_.

Even Wally didn't have the full story of what happened two years ago, just that it involved Camelot and Merlin and a horrible, horrible accident. Good.

If there was anything that infuriated Dick more than being ignored, it was being _pitied_.)

 

\--

 

“Speedy, use a net arrow to catch Ariadne in mid-air,” Robin directed mid-mission, leaping from rooftop to rooftop. “KF and I will flank and direct her towards the alley mouth.”

“Gotcha, Rob,” Roy confirmed, and readied his charmed bow. Ollie might’ve gotten huffy due to his muggle pride, but Roy hadn’t hesitated in accepting better equipment once the JLA invited them on. Besides, a bow that didn’t need a quiver was _amazing_.

“Uh, got a problem here,” Kid Flash’s voice came over choppily through the communication spell Donna had set up between them. “She’s got these—I don’t know what they are, but they’re making it hard for the Speed Talisman to—woah!”

“Wally!” Dick called out after loud screech. He veered off to where his friend had crashed into a cart. “What happened?”

“She threw a flower at me!” he moaned, clutching his head. The Speed Talisman embedded in his uniform crackled blue in complete contrast to its usual yellow. “And the Talisman stopped working all of a sudden, what the hell!"

That was alarming in itself: the Speed Talismans were a bitch to damage. Dick glanced around and saw the flower in question: a strange, metal-blue rose lay half-crumpled on the floor. Something inside him lurched at the sight. This was… this was familiar. He picked it up and immediately felt like—

He was shattered, lost, and lit on fire; like he was spread over dozens and dozens of shards that ached to be put back together.

It wasn't a nice feeling. It reminded him of drowning in water and being locked away in stone, and all he could think was _this was his rose_. How did this smuggler get a hold of _his rose_?

“Where did you get these?” Dick asked once they'd trussed her up like a chicken and zeta'd her back to the Watchtower. Her bag had at least five more of the flowers, each of them filling Dick with the exact same feeling of dread as the first one. “Tell me.”

“I thought you were after me for the potion ingredient smuggling,” Ariadne evaded the question. Dick looked at Roy, who looked at Wally, who looked at Donna.

Donna cleared her throat. “Take her to the pool.”

Ten minutes later, the witch scrabbled at the pool edge. “Fine! Fine, a—a woman gave it to me! Dark hair and eyes. She said she was testing some kind of potion, and that the flowers would help me. I gave her some ingredients for them of course—”

“Where did she get them?” Dick said.

“I don’t know!”

“Garth?” Donna said, and the witch screeched as she was dragged back underwater. There was a mad scramble of limbs and fins, and then the water exploded upwards into a twister. Garth’s elegant form swam up the spout, grabbed the flailing witch, and yanked her head out of the water.

“The Lake of Avalon!” she sputtered. “She said—she said they were from the Lake of Avalon, that they were drops of Excalibur’s blood—”

Heavy magic suddenly slammed down upon them all, enough that Garth dropped the twister in surprise. He and the witch were hurled unceremoniously into the pool, and even the magic-less Wally and Roy looked discomfited by whatever was in the air.

“Dick?” Wally asked tentatively.

“No,” Dick finally voiced. He walked right up to the pool edge and stared down at the flailing witch. Something powerful stirred up in his gut, growing stronger and stronger the angrier he became. The sacrilege tasted wrong on his tongue; it tasted foul and Dark. How _dare_ they. His words shook the air around him, “No one but the worthy can use the ruins of Excalibur. No tainted creation can exist without consent.”

“I’m just telling you want she told me,” Ariadne whined, her eyes big and scared.

“ _I’m_ telling you that Excalibur’s law holds true for his remains,” and Dick withdrew the rose from his pocket. His words wrapped around its stem securely and sank into it like a promise. “Only the worthy may wield him.” He dropped it into the pool and watched it wilt. Kneeling down so he was eye-level with the witch, he said, “And _you_ are not worthy.”

 

\--

 

(“What the heck was that?” Wally asked him on their way back to the labs. Dick didn’t say anything, feeling too shaken up himself. The words had just— _poured_ out of him, and it reminded him uncomfortably of The Incident when Bruce’s words had stopped the book.

It was the water, he thought. The water and that rose together had brought back memories of a nightmare he wanted to forget.

And then they opened the lab doors and found the metal-blue flowers torn to shreds across the room.

“Great Hera,” Donna gasped, looking at the destruction. “What happened here?”

“I’m going to go out on a limb here and say we won’t be able to analyze these,” Roy leaned down and, before Dick could stop him, tried to pick up a petal. The archer quickly jumped back with a pained hiss. " _Ow_! What the fuck?"

Deep red cuts bloomed on his fingers as if he'd brushed up against the sharpest blade in the world.

"Everyone, out," Dick said. The other Titans looked at him like he was crazy.

Donna said, “This is above our paygrade, Rob. Maybe Batman can…”

“No one tells Batman this happened,” Dick said.

“He _’_ s the leading expert on Arthurian lore,” Donna insisted. She took out her wand and healed Roy's bleeding hand with a quick  _Episkey_ spell. “The woman said these were drops of Excalibur’s blood. _Excalibur_! If we can find the sword, maybe we can...”

“ _No one tells Batman_ ,” Dick snapped before closing his eyes and forcing himself to calm down. Emotionalism was irrational, and Robin was nothing if not rational. “Camelot is not our mission, and these flowers aren’t relevant to ours.”

A pause, and then he said, quieter: “And the Batman has far greater things to worry about.”

Once the other Titans' footfalls faded down the hall, Dick crouched down and stared intently at the petals on the floor. He scooped them into his palms.

He felt—he felt something. A little twitch he’d almost believed was gone forever, there and gone like a fly grazing his cheek. The petals remained soft and harmless against his skin, because it wasn't like a sword could hurt itself. Just everyone else unworthy to wield Excalibur... even Bruce, for now.

Bruce knowing about these flowers would just make things so much worse.

So he collected all the flower petals and hid them in his pockets. He quietly went through surveillance and erased all traces of the flower's existence, only leaving behind Ariadne's potion smuggling and subsequent arrest. Then, when he was satisfied the servers were wiped, he went home.

The childhood rose bushes he'd summoned had died along with his magic, but Alfred hadn’t replanted the row in the gardens. Scattering the shredded petals onto that soil seemed a fitting tribute to their passing.

The petals were gone the next day, presumably blown away by the wind.

An entire year later, however, young saplings began to sprout from the ground. When the bushes finally bloomed, their flowers were a beautiful metal-blue.)

 

\--

 

A year later, Bruce Wayne began to slowly disappear for good.

 

\--

 

“Richard!” Miss Swan descended on him like a vulture. Dick barely had time to brace himself. “My, my, how you’ve grown! I remember when you just a cute little thing—look how handsome you turned out! What are you, fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Fifteen, Miss Swan,” Dick said with a practiced smile, trying to push her away because her _breasts_ were on his _arm_ and she was old enough to be his grandmother.

“Fifteen already! Sweet lord, it's been a while. Your father's done good work for us muggles these last few years, you know,” Miss Swan continued patting his arm. With her chest. “None of those _wizards_ lift a finger to actually help us integrate magic in our lives—they think we’re just so grateful to have that Justice League of theirs to protect us. Well, we deserve magic in our homes too, don’t you agree?”

“Bruce is my guardian, Miss Swan,” Dick focused on the least controversial point in that diatribe, “Not my father.”

“Oh, of course, of course,” Miss Swan finally stepped back and gave Dick a—was that supposed to be a pitying look? “Our Brucie has always been a handsome man, hasn’t he?”

Dick blinked rapidly. “I—I suppose?”

“Temperance,” a familiar, rich voice called out from behind them. A large hand settled against the small of his back, and then there Bruce was in all his asshole Brucie Wayne glory. “I’m so glad you could make it.”

“You think I’d miss the best party of the spring season?” she tittered. “Your galas are always wonderfully delightful, Bruce. Oh! I just remembered, that Muggles-only charity fundraiser I was thinking of…”

“Actually,” Bruce cut in before she could go on another rant. “I need to speak with my ward, if you don’t mind.”

He led them away before she could respond, and Dick was caught between sighing in relief and looking at his mentor with suspicion. A ‘talk’ could mean anything from a Batman mission to nagging Dick about his homework to using him as a way to escape his investors.

It served him right for throwing such boring parties.

“Ten o’clock’s a good enough time to disappear,” Bruce commented while leading him out into the gardens. It was a warm spring day. “You look like you were going to jump through a window.”

“Her _boobs_ on my _arm_ ,” Dick stressed, and was more than shocked when Bruce threw back his head and laughed. “Bruce! It’s not funny.”

Bruce shook his head, “Temperance has always been very… forceful. The first time we met, she pinched my ass so hard I thought I’d been stung by a bee.”

“I think I’d take a bee over saggy boobs on my arm,” Dick decided. He danced ahead and pretended not to catch sight of the determined, defeated look that flashed across Bruce's face. If Bruce was going to say something horrible soon, Dick wanted to stave it off as long as possible. “At least one I can pretend is a bee. But there’s nothing that really feels like an old grandma flirting with you, y’know?”

He flipped and cart wheeled himself onto the brick wall lining the walkway, acutely aware of Bruce watching him from the path.

“It’s good practice,” his mentor said. “If you can charm and flirt with people like Temperance Swan, you can charm your way out of anything.”

“I already do that,” Dick declared, before leaping fearlessly into the air. One somersault, two, and then Bruce caught him like he always did. Strong arms grabbed him around the waist with ease, warm and reassuring and everything Dick had missed these last few years. He laughed and wound his arms around broad shoulders. He didn't let go, not even when Bruce gently set him onto the ground. He was tall enough to pull it off without dangling awkwardly, and short enough to comfortably throw a smile up at his mentor. “What do you think, B? Am I charming you?”

He hadn’t expected a real answer, and was surprised when Bruce smiled fondly at him. “Always, Dick.”

Dick's composure crumpled just a bit at the admission. This game wasn't fun anymore. It was never fun.

“I miss you,” he said in a tiny voice. He rested his head on Bruce’s chest and leaned in close. Bruce never let him do this anymore. He barely let him sleep with him on the rare days he actually bunked down at home, because propriety and awkward guilt and the lie that the Batman must have a cold, dead heart. He squeezed his eyes shut. The fact that Bruce wasn’t pushing him away now meant whatever was coming was going to hurt.

“Dick,” Bruce said. His voice sounded weird, like he’d been going for a Batman tone and was bewildered to find himself saddled with plain old Bruce Wayne instead. He cleared his throat. “I made a promise to you once, and I mean to keep it. I will get your magic back. It's out there."

And Dick had suspected what Bruce had been doing gallivanting about the dimensions, but having it confirmed sent a bolt of angry guilt through his gut. "Well what if I don't want it back, B? Not in exchange for you."

“Dick,” the older man sighed.

“I'm serious,” Dick glared up at him. “I'm not some _helpless kid_. l've led the Titans for years and—and got top honors despite not having the proper schooling, and what more do you need from me? Haven't I proven myself enough?”

“I’m proud of you,” Bruce said, and Dick's angry diatribe caught in his throat. It melted entirely when Bruce cupped his cheek, until Dick felt embarrassingly vulnerable. He hated this. He _hated_ it. “You’re so strong. Stronger than I was, at your age. But I can’t lose you to this mission.”

It should have surprised him when Bruce leaned forward, but it didn't. Very little about Bruce ever really surprised him, not when he'd spent so long in his pocket. When the man pressed a gentle kiss to his mouth, Dick's eyes fluttered shut. It was just the soft brush of lips on skin, and Dick might have been able to enjoy it—if he wasn't acutely aware of the finality in the gesture.

It was goodbye.

“Bruce,” he called out when Bruce drew back. But it wasn't Bruce. It was the Bat. “You keep saying you don’t want to lose me, but I don’t want to lose you either. I don’t want the _Batman_ —I’d rather you stop looking altogether."

“You deserve better.”

“No,” Dick said.

“And the world needs Batman. It doesn’t need Bruce Wayne.”

“ _I_ need Bruce Wayne,” Dick snapped, wanting to grab him by the neck and shake him. “And you’re wrong if you think I’ll just sit here and let you—”

“You don’t have a choice,” and Bruce’s voice was flat and so emotionless it send a chill up Dick’s spine. “The decision has already been made.”

He kissed his forehead, more out of obligation than anything else. Dick shook him off and clung tightly around him, like he could keep him from leaving by sheer weight alone. Like he could convince Bruce to come back by reminding him of what he'd be leaving behind, not that that was any use. Dick wasn't enough.

The Batman just firmly disentangled himself and trekked back to the party.

“Bruce?” Dick called out in a small voice, bereft and cold as he watched that dark silhouette melt into the shadows. He looked down with trembling lips and realized exactly in what part of the garden they'd been speaking in.

Metal-blue roses glinted sharply in the moonlight, casting reflected rays onto the walls and ground and onto Dick's navy pants. It was fitting and horrible and Dick wanted to cast an _Incedio_ on the mocking bushes and be done with it all. But he couldn't. He couldn't even dissuade Bruce from pushing him away. From pushing _everyone_ away, it seemed, until it was just him and the mission.

This was what he missed the most, really. Purpose. Anything was better than this gnawing helplessness that crept up on him in his darkest moments, when Dick felt the empty spot in his chest where his warmth used to be. His heart felt so cold and hard, like his soul trapped in cruel, immovable stone.

 

\--

 

Sometimes when he looked at the broad, immovable back of the Batman, he hated him. He hated him so much, he sometimes wondered why he still loved him.

 

\--

 

“Guinevere,” Batman said, stalking out from the deep shadows. The woman sighed and twirled her whip, but didn’t immediately apparate away as the Bat had feared. Instead, she turned around and gave the vigilante a cool look.

“I’ve told you a million times, sweet,” she drawled. “It’s Selina.”

The Batman just narrowed his eyes at her.

“What do you want,” she folded her arms and leaned against the rooftop railing. They’d long moved past their early animosity; and while the Bat couldn’t completely keep the woman from stealing magical artifacts, she’d definitely adopted a more Robin-Hood-esque agenda.

“The pin,” Batman said. “I know you have it.”

“Your little Robin gave it to me as a _gift_ , B,” Selina crooned. “Don’t you know how rude it is to ask for gifts back?”

“I want it back,” the Batman replied, “or I’ll hand over evidence of your Crime Alley ‘gift-giving’ activities to Head Auror Gordon in the morning.”

“Those muggles _need_ those ward stones,” Selina’s voice hardened. “And until muggle Gotham can get their heads out of their asses and allow wizards to set up foundation wards—”

“I’m working on that,” Batman said. Even Wayne Enterprises couldn’t force the populace to put their trust in magic. “But I need that pin right now.”

“You still haven’t given up,” Catwoman sighed. She reached into a pocket of her skintight robes and tossed the pin at him. “Fine, grumpy-pants, have it back. Don’t come crying to me when Robbie finds out and throws a fit.”

“I don’t cry,” Batman said, and looked down at the gleaming Wayne Enterprise pin in his gauntlet. Closing a fist around it, he turned around and swept back into the dark.

 

\--

 

The sun rose and set for three days before Dick kicked down the door to his study.

“ _Bruce,_ ” the teenager hissed, and Bruce must be more out of it than he’d thought. Dressed in his prim Gotham Academy uniform with his hair combed back, Dick cut a striking figure as he stormed right up to Bruce’s desk.

“Dick,” he said, reluctantly pulling himself away from the spellbooks. “How was school.”

“Like you had any idea the weekend was over until now,” Dick said flatly. He reached over and slammed the books shut, one after the other. Bruce growled but didn’t stop him.

The boy paused on a textbook of Arthurian lore before slamming that one shut too. He poked Bruce in the chest. “Have you even been sleeping?”

“Yes.”

“And I mean in a bed and not sitting straight up like some cardboard cut-out,” Dick said, and Bruce couldn’t help but set his jaw in response. “ _Bruce._ "

“I can handle it,” Bruce snapped. He hated feeling like a chastised child, especially before his ward. He was _thirty,_ for god's sake, and Dick was all of seventeen. Not an adult—not yet. But it's not like Robin had ever cared about age-appropriate behavior. The boy swiped a presumptuous thumb across Bruce's jaw like this was a normal thing to do, though even Bruce had to admit his stubble was reaching gross levels of crazy.

And then Dick spotted the old Wayne Enterprise amulet on the desk, and their argument changed tone entirely.

He snatched it up. “I gave this to _Selina_ , Bruce. Why do you have it?”

“You had no right to give it to her,” Bruce said, parroting Guinevere because why not. “It was a gift to you, and it’s rude to give gifts away.”

“It wasn’t a gift!” Dick threw the pin down onto the table with an angry clang. “It was a _prison_ , and I don’t need it anymore. Give it back to Selina.”

“No.”

“You're being ridiculous!”

“You should show me some respect,” Bruce growled, vaulting to his feet and looming over the boy. Dick didn’t even flinch. He just continued sitting on the desk with a glower on his face, so obstinately sure that he was in the right. “We may be partners, but I make the final decisions here.”

“Don't you pull that 'I'm an adult' crap with me,” Dick said tightly. He raised his chin. “We're partners, so it's my job to tell you when you're being _completely batshit crazy_. Bruce, you have to _stop_.”

Bruce said nothing, and after a long moment the teenager set his jaw and stood up from the desk.

“Dinner,” Dick said, voice low with exhaustion. “Please, B.”

Bruce watched the boy step over the broken door and out the room. He sat down into his chair and looked at the gleaming pin he’d commissioned in what felt like a lifetime ago.

Who knew that in six years, it’d contain the last remnants of Dick’s magic. He needed a piece to feed a tracking spell, one that would confirm his hypothesis that Dick's magic hadn't actually _gone_ anywhere. That it was still there, just lurking beneath the surface.

"You said your spellbook was more Merlin than you sometimes," he'd asked Clark once during another harrowing mission in mirror Avalon. Merlin had thrown him a dirty look before deflecting a spell, not bothering to dignify him with an answer. "In the original legend, Merlin was the one that placed Excalibur in a stone so he couldn't be used."

"Batman!" Clark snapped, and sighed when Bruce whirled around and took the brunt of a nasty transfiguration spell intended to turn him into... what was this? A tree? He clutched the stone wall he and Clark had been hiding behind and watched it shoot upwards into a complex wooden fence, far better at keeping the spells at bay than before.

"Why?" he continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. Clark looked away.

"I'm not Merlin, Batman," he said in a quiet voice. "Not exactly. It could be a test. It could be out of self defense. You don't—you don't realize how dangerous that kind of magic could be in the wrong hands. What kind of weapon that sword can be if given to the unworthy."

"Dick's a person, not a weapon," Bruce snapped at him, which was when the Apokoliptan Wizards blasted through the wall and they had better things to worry about.

But it was confirmation that it was possible. That all Bruce had to do was unravel the stone—if there was one, the final details on that was kind of murky—and then. And then Dick would be whole again.

(He remembered Dick’s devastation those first few years, and had watched in mixed horror as the boy tried covering the pain up for Bruce’s sake.

 _Stop, please, you’re pushing yourself too hard, it’s fine, it’s fine_ , and Bruce would feel guiltier for worrying his boy if he weren’t stubbornly convinced that he would find a way.

That eventually, he’d be able to bring Dick’s magic back.)

 

\--

 

"You're not going!" Bruce roared, so angry he hadn't even bothered suiting up in the cowl and cape. Dick went toe-to-toe with him, tall enough to look Bruce in the eye and tell him, in no uncertain terms, to _fuck off. "_ The records of Tamaran are clear. The Garudas are unpredictable, near-immortal creatures who can _scoop out your eyeballs_ , and it's in no way a productive use of the Titan's—"

"Kory's a Titan!" Dick shouted back. "And she needs our help, and if you think I'm going to just _sit back_ and let her kingdom be run to the ground by her own sister—"

Bruce trashed a sitting room and Dick shattered two vases, and by the end of it Bruce was seriously considering asking Merlin to come and ward their home against bloodthirsty Garuda soldiers. He wasn't exaggerating about the Garuda's bloody exploits. Koriand’r may be sweet enough, but she was clearly not the norm for her species.

At least he’d won. Dick wasn’t going, not even after verbally tearing Bruce apart until the older man had to stomp downstairs to let off steam in the gym or do something he’d regret. Nothing reminded him more of Dick's independence than when he wanted to throw the brat out of the window. He was sharp and charming and so very strong in his rage, and Bruce couldn't help but want him.

Shame, he'd long since learned, wasn’t productive.

Regaining control was productive.

Except when he finally returned to his room, freshly showered and calm, he found Dick sitting cross-legged on his bed and examining Thomas Wayne’s wand in his hands.

“Dick,” Bruce growled, because Dick knew better than to touch his father's wand.

Dick didn't even look up. “I couldn’t control it, you know. If I let go for just a second, the magic just—it slammed against that awful boundary." He tapped the wand to his chin, his neck, and finally to his right breast where he’d once worn his amulet-pin. “I hated that amulet.”

“You would have learned to control it,” Bruce sat beside the boy. He put his hand out, and Dick reluctantly handed the wand over. "You're a quick study."

“Or I would have torn down some historical monument. You probably would have warded everything against me too, if you didn’t know me.”

“You’re not…” Bruce started, but closed his mouth when Dick gave him a look. “Dick, that’s different.”

“It’s not,” Dick said, shifting so he faced his guardian. His voice was firm and steady. “It’s the same, and it’s not fair to treat me as the exception to the rule. Kory needs my help, and I’m just as qualified as the other Titans to go. Keeping me grounded is insulting.”

“The Garudas hold magic-users in the highest regard. A wizard who lost his magic is perhaps the worst blasphemy possible. If they found out...”

"I'm a muggle. This is a non-starter."

“ _Dick_.”

“I'm a _muggle,_ Bruce!” The boy was clearly losing his patience. His blue eyes glinted in anger. “I’m happy where I am. I’ve friends at school and friends in the field and it’s not like we’re any less involved with the magical community. I’m _happy_. And it’s—it’s killing me to see you going crazy like this. To see you losing yourself like this.”

He crossed the bed and curled up snugly against him like it was his goddamn right. Dick was warm and lithe and all toned muscle beneath his cotton shirt. He fit against his side like he belonged there, mostly because such easy familiarity was hard to come by naturally. Because Bruce had spoiled Dick far too much as a child, back when he'd been able to write off his affection as some kind of post-traumatic imprinting. This, however, was clearly affection of a different sort. Dick turned and pressed a soft kiss to jawline. It sent a shiver of want through him, and that scared him more than anything.

“Bruce,” the boy sighed, sounding exhausted. He nuzzled his neck softly. “I wanna sleep with you tonight.”

“No,” Bruce said flatly. He could feel his control slipping, and that was a very dangerous thing. “Go back to your room.”

“Bruce—”

“ _No_.”

Dick scowled and pulled himself away. His absence left his skin feeling cold and bereft, but that didn't matter. He tried to breathe.

“I’m worried about you,” Dick said in a quiet voice. “I’ve told you it’s not worth it, Bruce. You’re losing more and more of yourself. Even Clark’s getting worried.”

Still nothing.

After a long moment, the teenager disentangled himself and leapt off the bed. He stalked out of the room and slammed the door behind him, which was when Bruce put his head in his hands and finally breathed.

 

\--

 

(Dick snuck off to the Tamaranean Dimension anyway. Bruce had warred between anger and worry, so much so that when Robin returned he spent an entire week ignoring him. Dick took the cold shoulder with grace borne of years handling Batman's tantrums, and had waited for the worst of Bruce's temper to pass before daring to approach.

"Hey," he offered, detaching his yellow cape and tossing it haphazardly onto the chair before the main console. Bruce continued ignoring him, standing stiffly with his back facing his ward. He barely flinched when he felt lithe arms snake around his waist, and then Dick was hugging him gently from behind. "I know I worried you, B."

Bruce didn't say anything, and it didn't seem like Dick expected him to. After another moment, Robin stepped back and returned to filing his mission briefing like he hadn't stopped to comfort Bruce at all. Bruce stood there for a long, long time before turning heel and stalking to the locker room.

The next time they patrolled, however, he actually exchanged two lines of dialogue with Robin. Dick beamed at him, beautiful in the stark light of the Gotham City nightlife.

Batman shot out another grappling line. Things were going to be okay. For now.)

 

\--

 

And then one day, a gift-wrapped box appeared outside Wayne Manor's heavily guarded front door.

 

\--

 

No address, no sign of a sender. The cameras simply showed the box appearing out of the blue, and Alfred had had the good sense to leave it alone until Bruce came back from the office.

A dozen wizarding and muggle tests later, he finally pried it open in the Batcave. Inside was a simple flask of water.

He’d been in the middle of putting samples of the liquid under the microscope—while the computer cross-analyzed its contaminants with known international bodies of water—when the landing pad whirred to life. Dick came barging in on his R-Cycle with a whoop. He tossed his helmet onto the rack and bounded up to where Bruce was.

“Bruce, did you know the northern mermaids are, like, completely unable to speak without—” he babbled before suddenly come to a full stop.

“What," Bruce said.

“It’s—” Dick tilted his head like he was listening to something. He wandered around the space until he came to the uncapped flask, and then peered into it in wonder. “It’s _singing_.”

“Alfred, please come down to the cave,” Bruce called down from the intercom, and could barely keep from tapping his foot while they waited. The butler strode into the Bat Cave as nonchalant as ever, and Bruce gestured at the flask. “Are you sensing anything special?”

“Hm,” the older man said. He narrowed his eyes at it. “I can tell it’s magical, sir.”

“You don’t hear it?” Dick said

“All I can hear are the bats, Master Dick,” Alfred confirmed, and Bruce immediately turned back to the tests. He needed to know what was in this water _now_. Bruce had already confirmed that the water didn’t have a to-recipient-only spell attached to it, and if only Dick could hear it…

“Its song makes me feel… sad,” Dick said after twenty minutes spent crouching next to the flask. He leaned back against Bruce’s chair and pillowed his head on the man’s thigh. Bruce was too busy to shove him off, though he probably should have. “But it’s beautiful, too.”

“Betws y Coed, Conwy,” Bruce read off the final results of the computer cross-analysis. “The flask contains micro-organisms that only exist in that general location.”

He gently pushed Dick’s head away and stood up from his chair.

“Alfred,” Bruce called out. “Book me the next Portkey to Wales.”

“For one passenger or for two?” Alfred frowned.

“One,” Bruce said, and glared at Dick when the boy protested. “You’re not coming with me.”

“Yes I am! _I’m_ the one that hears the water singing—”

“You can’t miss more school.”

“But Bruce—”

“That’s an order, Dick,” Bruce’s voice turned hard. “Stay. Here.”

Dick glowered but didn’t argue further. Not that every tense line of his body didn’t tell Bruce exactly what he thought of the Bat leaving him behind. Bruce never liked it when Dick was upset, especially when he was upset with _him_ —but this was better for them both. It was the smart thing to do.

“Tomorrow, earliest send-off,” he told Alfred, and the butler simply bowed.

Bruce strolled up the stairs before Dick could protest further, and heard rather than saw the boy kick over the chair in anger.

 

\--

 

The island sat innocently close to Betws y Coed’s shore. It would have been quite plain if Bruce hadn’t tasted the crackling magic radiating from it.

It tasted familiar. Very, very familiar, and his heart thumped quicker at the electric sting of it. Six years of searching, and it was a singing glass of water that lead him here. Dick's magic seemed to pour out of the lake in waves.

 _Trap_ , his mind assessed once Bruce forced himself into the nearest wizarding tavern and ordered a butterbeer. It was sweet and warm and clearly not something he'd like for himself. Dick would probably love it. _It’s a trap, it’s too easy, they literally gave it to you as a present, you know that_.

Bruce called over the bartender and took out two galleons. No one used credit cards in this part of Wales, or, God forbid, any other form of universal currency. “Tell me everything you know about that island,” he said, and scowled when the bartender needed another sickle before spilling his guts to the handsome American.

It was the Island of Avalon—or, more accurately, an island hosting a portal that lead to Avalon. The lake around it was the Lake of Avalon—fitting—and according to the locals, it was the last remnant of Camelot’s glory.

Bruce was going to strangle Clark when he got home.

“There’s ancient magic there,” the bartender warned. “It takes a keen eye to see past the illusions. And I’ve heard those who manage to arrive find nothing more than some rocks and trees… very mysterious. Very dangerous.”

“Ta,” Bruce said flatly, and put down payment for his beer.

It _was_ probably a trap, but that didn’t mean Bruce was going to just walk away. He narrowed his eyes at the island's murky silhouette in the distance and breathed its magic in once again. Even with the illusions, it'd take less than a day to dock at the island. And every fiber of his being demanded he head there this instant.

“Can you deliver this message?” Bruce placed a letter at the inn counter. The witch on the other side cast him a bored look. “I need to send it to America.”

“Renting an international owl’s gonna cost more,” she said, and popped her multi-colored gum when Bruce handed over the rest of his foreign currency. “What the…”

“I’m heading to the Island of Avalon. Payment for my room and for the letter,” he said, ignoring her dumbstruck expression. “Keep the change as tip.”

Even the fastest owl took hours to fly across the sea; from his estimates, Clark should receive his letter in about twenty-four hours. Plenty of time.

And if that, for some reason, didn’t pan out, he’d clearly stated his destination and made a showy gesture that people would remember. If the flashy American bloke wasn’t spotted within a day or two, at least the witch at the inn would realize something was wrong.

As he went to ready a boat, he found his attention caught by the metallic-blue rosebushes growing along the rocky lake shore. They were beautiful and familiar and leaned over to pick a rose—

It sliced through his magically-warded gloves like it was butter.

“Bruce?” Dick’s voice called out like the boy was right next to him. Bruce whirled around, heart-thudding. Illusions and trickery, the bartender had said, but even knowing that he still felt uneasy.

Bruce shook his head and stared out at the island. For all he knew it was a trap, it also felt like home. No matter what, he was going to get some answers.

 

\--

 

Which made it all the worse when Bruce found himself coughing up blood at the feet of someone he’d never planned to see again.

“Pity,” R’as Al Ghul cocked his head. “We could have been great together, Arthur. Back in Camelot and here in the present, but as always you reject my alliance. But these are new times…” he pressed the heel of his boot onto Bruce’s hand. The younger man hissed. “…and so we must form new plans. I don’t need you anymore. Not with someone even more useful in play.”

And then R’as reached down and pressed his hand to Bruce’s chest—and kept pressing and pressing, relentless despite Bruce’s thrashing, until the dark magic of his hands sank right into Bruce’s core.

 _I can’t die here,_ Bruce managed to think just as the world went startling, painfully white. _I can’t.  
_

 

\--

 

"Oh, Beloved," Talia whispered and stroked his face with a soft hand. "Why do you fall for this trick every time?"

 

\--

 

Dick, in a fit of childish anger, decided to say _fuck it_. If Bruce was going to be gallivanting about all on his lonesome in Wales, England, then he could deal with Dick chain-flooing to Roy’s favorite German bar and getting smashed.

“The best part is,” Roy shouted over the commotion, “in Europe, the legal drinking age is seventeen! They’ve got an age-limitation spell at the counter. As long as you can get up and order, you’re all good!”

They took card, thank god, because Dick wasn’t even sure where he’d get wizarding money from. Roy and Wally mooched off of him for their drinks too, but Bruce was the one footing the bill in the end, so whatever.

Dick had no illusions: Bruce was definitely going to find out about this when he came back. He just didn’t care.

“How many drinks has Roy had?” he shouted at Wally, who was shimmying badly against Donna. More like wiggling around while Donna rocked it out beside him, but it was the thought that counted. “He’s borrowed my card and I can’t find it.”

“I dunno,” Wally gave up his shimmying and crowded close to Dick so they didn’t have to scream at each other. “Why? You looking for him?”

As if on cue, a roar and crash suddenly came from the bar. The three of them jumped and immediately shouldered their way to the scene. Kory and Garth were dragging a clearly drunk Roy away from the counter, though the boy was still cursing and shouting at the angry goblin beside him.

“You took my gold watch!” he raged, “Just—just because I’m _drunk_ doesn’t mean I won’t _notice_!”

“This gold watch is clearly goblin-made,” the goblin sneered. “It was stolen by you wizards, and I’m simply taking it back.”

“I’m _not a wizard_!” Roy threw himself at him—which was Kory had enough and set herself on fire.

“ _NO MORE FIGHTING_ ,” she boomed, both wings spread and flaming like some avenging angel. “ _GOBLIN, YOU WILL RETURN MY FRIEND’S ITEM OR ELSE I WILL BURN OFF YOUR FACE._ ”

“She will,” Garth supplied, stepping away from Kory with a wince. His scales dried quickly in heat. “I’ve seen her gut ogres bigger than you.”

The goblin glared at them all, but was clearly outnumbered. He slammed the watch back onto the counter and disappeared into the crowd, and Roy fastened it back onto his wrist. Or he tried to fasten it onto his wrist, but he was too drunk to find the buckle.

Donna rolled her eyes and went to assist him. “Honestly. Did you need to cause a scene, Roy? How much have you had to drink?”

“Why does everyone keep asking that? I’m _fine_.”

"You are _not."_

"I _am_!"

“Bartender, please cut my friend off for the night,” Donna told the cowering wizard behind the counter.

“You can’t do that!” Roy grabbed Donna roughly by the arm, hard enough that she let out a startled yelp. Everyone froze. Before Donna could hex him halfway to Sunday, Dick and Wally moved in tandem to drag their friend out of the bar.

“What the hell’s your problem, man?" Wally hissed, "Donna’s just trying to help.”

“She’s treating me like I’m a _baby_."

“You’re acting like a baby,” Dick said. He stuck his hand in Roy's pocket and found his card and a bottle of some alcoholic liquid. He narrowed his eyes, even as Roy looked away in angry embarrassment. “And you’ve definitely had way too much to drink.”

Roy tried swiping the bottle back, “Did not.”

“You _always_ have too much to drink,” Wally said. “And I don’t care if you hurt yourself doing it, but you can’t just _attack_ another Titan like that.”

“I wasn’t _attacking her_ ,” Roy shouted. He grabbed the bottle and made to down it, which was when Wally shot forward and knocked it out of his hand. Amber liquid spilled onto the ground, to Roy's obvious rage. "What the fuck! Do you know how much that cost?"

"Roy," Dick said, but the older boy ignored him.

“And where do you two get off sticking your nose in my business? Like none of you know how unfair life can be. I mean _look_ at you. Wally West, the lesser Flash,” Roy snarled, “Smaller, weaker and slower than the _real_ Flash, and only good for a sidekick. You never even tried branching out. What, you’re scared you’ll never match up to your good old uncle on your own?”

Wally went white with anger, and Dick had to pull him back to keep him from punching the older boy’s face in. “ _Shut it_ , Roy!”

“And Dick,” Roy turned on him with a lopsided grin. Dick felt the hair on the back of his neck rise; secrets were precious to him, and Roy was far too perceptive. “Dick, Dick, Dick. Your crush on the Batman is just _sad_ to watch. I don’t know what’s worse: that he’s your guardian and that’s inappropriate as fuck, or that he’s _King Arthur_ and _so_ out of your league—”

Dick didn’t hesitate. He roundhouse kicked Roy mid-rant, right into the concrete wall of the pub so hard the wall _cracked_.

“Dick!” Wally shouted, but Dick ignored him. He went for the kill in the cold, precise manner Bruce had taught him, and his next blow knocked Roy out cold. He breathed heavily above his slumped friend's body and then wiped his mouth with a shaky hand.

“Woah,” Wally said, but clearly saw something on Dick’s face and closed his mouth.

“Take Roy back home,” Dick said flatly. He threw Roy at Wally’s feet and stared off into the distant sky. “I’m done for today.”

“You know he didn’t mean any of that,” Wally tried. It was rare for Dick to lose his cool in front of his teammates, though Wally knew him better than the others. He put a hand on his shoulder. “He was angry and just wanted to get under our skin…”

“I don’t care,” Dick said, shrugging him off. "I'm done."

He returned to the manor only slightly buzzed, still smarting over Roy’s accusations because they hit too close to home. Wally had laughed it off as him wanting to piss him off, but Roy _knew_ people. It’s why his barbs always hurt.

Alfred arched an eyebrow at him when he slunk through the door.

“I don’t even know where to begin, Master Dick,” the butler said frostily, and Dick shook his head. “Frankly, I’m shocked at this irresponsible behavior.”

“Tattle to Bruce when he comes back tomorrow,” Dick said, testier than he would’ve dared if he hadn’t been all out of patience. “I’m going to sleep.”

He ended up in Bruce’s room, because clearly his subconscious was really holding nothing back today. Dick sniffed and crawled under pristinely folded white sheets. The pillow smelled like Bruce’s aftershave; if he closed his eyes and let the inebriation take him over, he could almost imagine Bruce was sleeping right next to him.

 

\--

 

Dick tasted blood on his lips and opened his eyes in a panic.

“Bruce?” he called out disbelievingly, because there the older man was. He was in his neatly pressed civilian clothing, staring down at him with intense blue eyes. Dick found himself standing at the edge of a misty lake—this was _the_ lake, his mind screamed—amidst a rose bush full of flowers. The air tasted sweet with morning. Bruce’s glove was bitter and well-crafted, but no match for Excalibur’s blade.

This was the sword that could cut through even Merlin himself.

Bruce’s expression looked open and almost hopeful, and Dick hadn’t seen that look for ages. He wanted to reach out and grab his hand, but before he could, Bruce walked away. And then Dick was sent spiraling back into the darkness of his mindscape, glittering shards swirling around him in a looping dance. Never touching him, never cutting him.

The stone trapping him kept things out as well as it kept things in. It was unbreakable and untouchable and it was clearly waiting for something. It had been waiting for six long years—and it was almost time.

 

\--

 

Dick woke up. He stumbled out of Bruce’s bedroom to the sound of Alfred speaking tersely with someone via floo. He yawned, still sleepy and attempting to avoid his throbbing hangover, and then he saw the butler’s ashen face.

“What happened?” he said shortly, flipping the rest of the way down the staircase and right up to the fireplace. Clark’s awkward face peered right back at him from the embers, which didn’t bode well. When Merlin had bad news… “Where’s Bruce?”

Clark’s expression became even more somber, and Dick felt his stomach drop.

“Clark?” he whispered.

When Alfred put a hand on his shoulder, he knew.

 

\--

 

Bruce woke up feeling sick and uneasy in the med bay of the Watchtower. He’d barely gotten his bearings when J’onn shoved a potion down his throat.

“It’s curious, Batman,” the eudaemon said calmly, uncapping another flask and unrepentantly tipping that one down Bruce’s throat too. “When Superman brought you here, we tried a variety of healing spells. They had no effect. Not even when we removed your cape, the most logical source of shielding magic.”

“It’s the cowl,” Bruce said flatly, though both of them knew it was a lie. Of those in the Justice League, only Superman knew the true extent of Bruce’s abilities. He wanted it to stay that way. The slick, wrong tightness under his skin only grew worse the more the potion worked through his system. His mind tried to remind him of something, something important, but he was too busy swallowing boiled toenails or something equally awful. “And it’s none of your business.”

“I only worry for you, my friend,” J’onn said. “What good are your secrets if they send you to the grave?”

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Bruce said—and felt a strange tingle right before Dick barged through the med bay door.

“God _dammit_ Bruce!” the boy shouted. He wasn’t even wearing his Gotham Academy uniform or Robin costume, for god’s sake, just his basic t-shirt and pants which meant he’d just gotten out of bed. It was shockingly sloppy for someone who cared about looks as much as Dick. Bruce felt absurdly protective; he didn't want anyone else seeing Dick so disheveled. This was a side of the teenager only Bruce should know.

“Haven't I told you I can't lose you to this? Not even if you _died_ for an entire minute, because what’s a little death for the great King Arthur?” Dick was saying when Bruce tuned back in. “Clark had to restart your heart manually, you bastard. What were you _thinking_?”

“Dick,” he managed as the boy stormed up to Bruce’s bed.

“We could have lost you to this,” Dick whispered—and Bruce had three entire seconds to realize what was going to happen.

R’as. The dark, oily feeling under his skin waiting patiently, the knowledge that he’d wandered willingly into a trap.

Bruce rasped, too late, “ _Don’t_!”

And then Dick’s hand landed on his shoulder, and the slick-wrong-dirty feeling attacked.

“Dick!” Bruce yelled when a dark swirl erupted from his skin and onto Dick’s, climbing up familiar, deft fingers and up his arm—and the teenager let out a terrible scream. It was too fast, too sudden, and Bruce remembered what R’as had said: _Not with someone even more useful in play._

It took a special way of thinking to use a human amulet as a trap; to use Bruce as a trap for his true target.

J’onn vanished instantly—eudaemons couldn’t stand dark magic, not even for a second—just as Dick collapsed onto the floor.

Dignity be damned—Bruce might have used up his magic reserves, but he still had his body. He began tearing away the IVs tucked under his skin—because spells had no effect, which meant the wizards had been forced to use _science_ , god forbid—and managed to set off several alarm spells before someone noticed.

“Bruce!” J’onn suddenly reappeared in his line of vision. He was wearing a talisman shielding him from the dark magic’s effects. “Bruce, I’ve called the others—what do you need?”

“I need to talk to him,” Bruce gritted out, hand fisting J’onn’s cape in a bid to communicate how fucking important that was. “Please—I need to help him.”

“Spellcasting doesn’t work—”

“But a conduit does,” Bruce overrode him. “You can link our minds together, can’t you?” He clasped J’onn’s arm hard, and let out his breath when the eudaemon nodded.

“Very well,” J’onn said. He reached over the writhing body of his ward and touched Dick’s unblemished neck—and Bruce felt himself sucked into the darkness.

 

_\--_

 

 _You could be mine, Excalibur,_ that dark magic hissed, slick and heavy and so awful Dick would’ve done anything to get away. He didn’t recognize it, not really, but something buried deep inside him did.

This was dark magic. This was evil.

It was _this_ being’s fault that Camelot had fallen the first time, seeping into the kingdom on Morgana’s shoulders and—

It crowded up against him like a particularly oily salesman. _Draw out your lost potential, your magic, something the Batman has failed prove himself worthy of for years. I can set you free.  
_

_No!_ Dick tried fighting his way out. The magic clung to him tighter, so hard it hurt. _You're not mine, and I'm not yours. Let me go!_

 _Foolish child,_ the magic hissed. _I suppose I have to show you by force what kind of power we could unleash onto the world._

Dick gasped when the dark magic slammed itself against the hard case protecting his soul. It hurt, and hurt even more as it kept attacking, and he scrabbled against the relentless magic desperately.

 _Stop!_ he shouted as it finally began breaking through. The stone wasn't meant to be cracked by brute force, and the sense of wrongness increased the more the Dark battered him.

“Dick!” a familiar voice called out—and the dark magic whirled around in distraction.

 _You’ve lost your chance_ , it shouted at the newcomer in anger. _This weapon is mine! You are no longer worthy!_

“Dick’s not a weapon,” Bruce told the darkness tersely. “He’s his own person, and he doesn’t want you.”

Dick could only gasp when the magic launched itself from his throat towards the Batman, a flood of dark, rippling magic that crashed onto Bruce like a wave.

 _No!_ Fury bled into Dick’s heart. It was one thing for the creature attack Dick at his most vulnerable, and another thing entirely for it to attack Bruce. _His_ Bruce, like it had any grounds to even be here. It hadn’t been invited or accepted or claimed; it’d trespassed brazenly without proving its worth, and it needed to pay.

“Throw Ra’s out of your body!” Bruce’s voice rang out from beneath the swirling mass of magic. Dick stood frozen, useless, because here B was giving him an opening to move and he couldn’t—“Now, Dick!”

The dark magic reeled back and struck Bruce’s chest so hard his fine amulet-surface cracked.

The audible crack shook something in his core. Dick screamed—and whatever was in his soul burst out through the cracks in the stone and swept away _everything_.

 

\--

 

Bruce snapped back to reality in time to hear the room _screech._ Every bed in the med bay except for Bruce’s began to unravel at the seams; the metal floor began to bend out of shape, like someone was pummeling great fists into each sheet; and only Wonder Woman bursting in and casting a hasty stabilizing charm kept the windows from shattering.

“Jesus Christ!” The Flash zoomed in after her and had to immediately shield his face from exploding mattress innards. “What’s happening?”

Bruce looked down and saw that someone—J’onn most likely—had placed Dick back onto the bed beside him. The boy pressed his face against Bruce’s neck, the muscles in his back taunt. He reeked of _magic_ , magic that Bruce hadn’t tasted in six years, magic he’d been searching for ever since. It screamed in rage, and Bruce might have enjoyed the familiar warmth of that power if it wasn’t so out of control.

Ra’s curse stood no chance. It was torn shrieking from Dick’s skin, washed clean by power so bright it ripped away all the shadows in its path. But the torrent threatened to consume Dick too, and quite possibly everyone else in the Watchtower dimension. It was power enough to bring Merlin’s magic down onto their heads.

“Dick,” Bruce shook the boy. He could barely see him through the brilliant glow, the magic pouring into him and overflowing without end. “Dick, that’s enough!”

“I can’t—” Dick gasped, too overwhelmed to even look him in the eye. “I can’t put it back, I can't. It wasn't supposed to be this way. This is _wrong._ ”

“You have to repair the stone, Dick,” Bruce said in as calm a voice as he could. It hurt to say it aloud, because he'd been searching for a way to break through that seal for years. But Dick was more important, and Merlin had clearly spelled the stone to lash out if destroyed incorrectly. “You’re strong, Dick. I know you can do it.”

“Diana, the wards!” The Flash screamed, running around the med bay in an attempt to keep the destruction contained within a vortex. Wonder Woman pulled out her wand and began chanting spells at the wards, but from the tight expression on her face it wasn’t helping as much as she’d liked.

"Bruce," Dick pled, which was when the man realized he couldn't place this weight entirely on Dick's shoulders. He couldn't, and it was unfair to expect the boy to be able to take it without breaking. And so he leaned down and kissed Dick’s mouth without a care of who could see them. Dick’s eyes went wide as saucers. He looked at Bruce like he was seeing him for the first time, his eyes finally clear all-encompassing panic.

They were in Dick's mindscape again—and there was the cracked stone. Bruce took a breath and grasped Dick's wrist firmly. He lifted the shaking hand up to the crack and said, in a commanding voice, " _Do it_."

Dick took a shuddering breath and looked at the crack with apprehensive eyes. Slowly, so slowly Bruce's heart hurt, he redirected his magic to the crack and began to seal it. He tamped the bleeding wound with the help of Bruce's direction, and even as it hurt him and Bruce both, Bruce knew without question that they couldn't stop.

And the wild magic began to fade like a tap running out of water, sucked back into that cage Merlin had ruthlessly built around his soul.

“No, no,” the boy said, despair openly visible on his face. “No—”

The crack closed. And then everything stopped.

Stuffing floated in the air. Metal poles clattered onto the floor. Bruce opened his eyes in time to see the Flash yelp and run into a wall, and everything caught in his vortex crashed on top of him.

“Ow, ow, ow!” he groaned, but seemed otherwise uninjured.

The other heroes poked their head into the room and looked around in bewilderment. Mostly at the destruction around them, because to tear through Merlin’s wards like they were tissue paper? That was terrifying magic.

Diana, on the other hand, was staring at Bruce. Of all the heroes gathered there she’d been the only one who had seen.

“No,” Bruce down and saw Dick surveying the room in a blind panic. He yanked himself from Bruce’s grasp and stumbled onto his feet. “ _No_.”

“Dick—” Bruce started, but Dick was already running through the med-bay doors. Bruce tore the rest of the IVs out of his arm and tried stumbling after the boy, but it seemed like his body had finally run out of juice. He collapsed gracelessly on the floor and could only growl at the heroes who tried helping back on the bed.

Dick _needed_ him. He needed him because—because that was—

“Arthur, that’s enough,” Diana snapped. She grabbed him by the arm and yelped when Bruce shoved her back with raw magic. It was a foolish waste of Dick’s power, but he’d sacrificed enough at the boy’s expense already. It was only fair for him to use that magic to bring him back.

Painfully and carefully, he levitated himself up onto his feet.

“You are acting like a fool,” Diana stressed, following him as he floated determinately towards the door. “You need rest, especially if the Dark has been lurking inside your core all this time. Who knows if it’s still there…”

“It’s not.”

“And how do you know that?”

“I can tell what kind of magic’s inside me,” Bruce couldn’t help but snarl. Diana just glared at him. “Don’t insult me, Percival.”

“Then I ask you not to insult me in kind,” she hissed. “You and Dick… don’t tell me you’re that kind of man, Bruce. He's more than a tool.”

Bruce didn't dignify her with an answer. He shoved the door open and staggered out.

“Bruce!” she called out after him, and he would have felt shame if he wasn’t too busy worrying about the drops of magic floating above the floor: like a blood trail leading downstairs towards the Titans’ quarters, right to where Dick had gone.

 

\--

 

“I’ll tell you a secret, Dick,” Merlin said as he examined the faint line in the stone that was all that was left of R'as's attack. “I knew what would happen when you and the spellbook met. And I didn't stop it."

“Clark?” Dick asked fuzzily, because he was a hundred percent sure he was dreaming. He had a vague memory of Bruce carrying him back to the med bay despite clearly needing to lie down himself. Of Bruce arguing quietly with Diana before reaching down and grasping his hand. He’d stayed there for a bit, but not as long as Dick would have liked. He remembered trying to hold onto his guardian’s fingers, and then feeling heartbroken when Bruce resolutely pried his hand away.

"Excalibur is dangerous, especially if it isn't properly claimed. It's a weapon _some_ people..." Merlin gestured at the marred stone, "..will try exploit. _Would_ have exploited if not for the protection the stone provided."

"Protection? You're saying this... this prison is supposed to be a _good_ thing?" Dick was feeling too sluggish to sock the man in the jaw, but the temptation was there. "Six years you kept me locked up and you're saying it was _for my own good_?"

"Arthur could have claimed you at any point," Merlin said, unrepentant. "The fact that he hasn't just proves he isn't ready."

"You don't get to decide that," Dick snarled. " _I_ get to decide. What makes you think you can just—just play with our lives like this, Clark?"

Except it wasn't Clark, not really. Dick had always suspected Clark and Merlin were somewhat separate entities, and this proved it. Clark's bewilderment after The Incident had been genuine. He wasn't sure if that made things better or worse. The old look in Merlin's eyes was wiser, yes, but so much more cold.

"Because I remember what happened, Excalibur. I remember how the Dark felled our walls because no mortal weapon could touch it. Only those of our original dimension can hurt us, and the only one still existing in this dimension was _you,"_ Merlin paused. "We lost because you weren't there. I won't let the same mistake happen again."

 _I was drowned_! Dick wanted to scream. _It wasn't my fault!_

He squeezed his eyes shut. No. No, that wasn't the point; he didn't give a rat's ass about Prophecy and Camelot and killing the Dark. Merlin could be as enigmatic as he liked, but that didn't change the fact that the blasted stone was still there; that Dick still couldn't access his magic; that Bruce would undoubtedly use this incident as an excuse to dive back into the mission.

That he would chase R'as to end of the earth, even if it killed him.

He painstakingly hauled himself up and examined the crack in the stone himself. He pressed his fingers on it and said in a small voice, “I'm losing him for good, aren't I?"

The wizard didn't scold him for the non-sequitur. Of course not. When Merlin looked at him again, his eyes were startlingly warm. Clark.

Dick said, "This... this is going to make everything worse. It's like every time he sees me, it reminds him of all of this, and I just. I want him to see _me._ ”

“If you’ve figured that out, Dick,” Clark said in a sympathetic but firm voice, crouching down so he was at eye-level with the boy, “then why don’t you _leave_?”

 

\--

 

It took Bruce far too long to realize that Dick hadn’t returned to the manor.

After healing sufficiently from his injuries and making sure his ward was in good health—he was still recuperating under a healing spell that put him to sleep—Bruce had taken his things and went right back to his search. With R’as involved, he needed every advantage he could get.

Some part of him ached to be there when Dick woke—the dark part of him, the part that thrilled at Dick’s affection, that was far too pleased at the taste of the boy’s mouth and constantly insisted on more—but another, louder part of him insisted he continue the mission. Besides, Diana had taken it upon herself to stand vigil, and he couldn’t deal with her disappointment too.

Dick would understand.

When he finally returned home exhausted after fighting off R’as’s pet imps and other dark creatures, he returned home to a house steeped in silence.

“Alfred?” he called out warily. The butler appeared within a few minutes from the Batcave, and watched in silence as Bruce surveyed the welcoming hall.

Dick’s jacket wasn’t on the banister; his favorite pair of shoes was gone. He wandered into the kitchen and noticed the sparkling clean counter. The neatly set table. Bruce had spent years trying to get Dick to put the chips back into the drawer and not leave them on the counter; their absence now told him all he needed to know.

“How long,” he said in a flat tone. He picked at a small bump in the tablecloth.

“Three weeks, sir,” and Bruce couldn’t see his face, but he _knew_ Alfred was giving him The Look. “I’m surprised you came back within a month, to be honest.”

“Why didn’t you _tell me_ ,” Bruce turned angrily. “He’s my ward, Alfred!”

“He needs space,” Alfred said coolly. “And it wasn’t as if you noticed.”

Bruce resisted the urge to break the table in half like a child throwing a tantrum. This wasn’t—it wasn’t—

“I’ll be downstairs,” he finally said, and swept down to the Batcave in fierce, determined rage. His rage only broke for a moment: when Bruce arrived at the monitors and saw the flask of water sitting on the counter. A metal-blue rose had been placed inside of it, and as expected of a magical flower in magical water, it had started to bloom impossibly upward.

If Bruce closed his eyes, he could almost hear the roses sing.

He carried the flask, flowers and all, and placed it by his bedside table. He took a shower. He washed his face.

Then he returned to the Batcave and went back to work.

 

\--

 

“Robin,” Batman said flatly, landing in front of his ward as silently as he always did. Robin frowned and crossed his arms, and the other Titans quickly made themselves scarce. Wally hid just inside the hall though, because the way things were going, he wasn’t comfortable leaving Rob on his own.

He wished Roy were here to talk sense. Speedy was always good at looking at a situation and just _knowing_ things.

But no, Roy was gone. Carted off to St. Anne’s rehabilitation center after Dick had followed an innocuous money trail Roy had left on Bruce’s card—and found a sketchy potion shop on the other hand, to everyone’s horror.

Donna had mercilessly _accio’d_ Roy’s pockets until they discovered the little pack of performance-boosting potions hidden in his gum case.

“Recklessness and volatile mood swings,” she’d screamed at him. “How could you be so _stupid_?”

Dick hadn’t said anything as they loaded the spellbound archer onto a floating and into the medical transport Dinah had called. Dinah and not Oliver, because Oliver blamed wizards and magic for corrupting his ward and had wanted nothing to do with his recovery. Not with magic involved.

“It’s not your fault for not noticing,” Wally tried offering his friend, and Dick had just given him a look. It was the same flat look he’d been wearing more and more recently, especially after his spat with the Bat.

“Batman,” Robin said, drawing Wally out of his reverie. He turned and narrowed his eyes like he’d been expecting the Bat the whole time. “Why have you assigned the Titans to low-level missions in the last week? We’re more than capable of handling difficult assignments. The hurricane disaster in Macau, for instance—I know you received word from the embassy.”

“You hacked my files.”

“You’ve had us _picking up litter_ in the park.”

“Superheroes performing mundane acts inspire the populace to do the same. It’s good morale for everybody.”

“Then _you_ pick up litter,” Robin snapped, temper flaring first, ‘”seeing as you’ve been AWOL the last few months anyway!”

“ _Dick_ ,” Batman said sharply, but Robin just stormed to the monitor muttering angrily to himself. The Bat followed him like a particularly disgruntled shadow. In a lower voice, he said, “R’as needs to be found. He unlocked your magic once, and he can do it again—”

“No!” Robin turned around. “No, Bruce, not again! Don’t you fucking put this on me anymore. You can’t just—it’s like you’re reopening the same wound every time! But you don’t care, of course. You’re just doing this for yourself, because the great Batman can’t make _any_ mistakes—”

The Batman roared and put his fist through the monitor chair. He threw it at the wall and it fell apart with a loud crash—

Which was when Kid Flash suddenly appeared before Robin. Scared out of his wits, yes, but not about to let his best friend get smashed to pieces.

“Woah, okay, so I’m just gonna butt in and ask you to _not_ destroy our stuff,” Wally said. He adjusted his stance, and now it was clear he was putting himself between Batman and Robin. “’Cause you look a second away from destroying _Robin_ , and he’s like our team leader…”

“This doesn’t involve you,” Batman said in a tight voice.

“Uh, yeah it does! That was my favorite chair!”

“He’ll buy you a new one,” Robin said flatly.

Wally gave him an incredulous look. “Okay fine, but is he going to give us a new Robin when he breaks you?”

“Wally!” and jeez, why was Dick annoyed at him too? “I’m fine. I’m not scared of Bruce; he’s just throwing a tantrum like a three-year-old.”

The Batman said nothing, just narrowed his eyes in near-vibrating tension.

“Or maybe it’s a two-year-old?” Robin mused out loud.

“This conversation isn’t over,” Batman snapped, which was the Batman-y equivalent of a retreat. Robin and Kid Flash watched him swan out of the lower levels as swiftly as he’d come. Once he was out of sight, Wally went up to his poor dismembered chair and mourned its shattered arms.

“Wayne Enterprises better pay for what he did to you, babe,” Wally cooed—which was why he almost, _almost_ didn’t hear Dick’s shuddery breath. But he did.

He turned and found his friend, their team leader, the strongest muggle out of all of them without _any_ magical artifact supporting him like a crutch—he found Dick sitting on the Titan’s couch with angry tears spilling down his cheeks.

“Oh shit,” Wally whispered. He super-sped to the boy’s side and wrapped his arms around his shoulders. Crazy ninja-trained bastard didn’t even shake as he cried. “Shit, I’m going to kill that guy.”

“It’s not—it’s not that,” Dick said, wiping his eyes uselessly. The tears still came. “I just—he’s not going to stop, is he? Even with me gone.”

“You mean with the,” Wally coughed, “the… you know?”

The boy gave him a baffled look, “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what?’” Wally flailed. He’d had a lot of time to think of why Roy’s drunken comment had pissed Dick off so badly, and none of the possible answers were good. “Like c’mon, Rob, we’re not dumb. Bats’s a good hero, but he’s—and you—”

Dick stiffened, “Don’t.”

“—half of your fights makes Bats seem like a possessive boyfriend, except, oh yeah. He’s _your guardian_. You know you don’t owe him anything?”

Dick shook his head and turned his face away, so Wally couldn’t see his expression. “It’s not like that.”

Still, something in his voice must have given him away. Wally’s following silence was as telling as it was damning.

“Do you,” the speedster said in a baffled voice, because this was the other possibility he hadn’t considered. Sure, he knew Dick almost certainly liked guys, given that _Koriand’r_ hadn’t been able to get a piece of that; and Roy had said… “Dick, do you _want_ it to be like that?”

Dick got up. Wiped his face one last time and looked him in the eye, and Wally didn’t like what he saw there. Not just defeat and acceptance, but a steel-backed determination, too. Like someone backed into a corner. Wally put a hand on his shoulder, trying to stave off the breakdown he could see coming a mile away.

“Yeah,” Robin finally said softly, voice cracking just a bit. “I do.”

“Fuck, Rob,” Wally said, and put his other hand on Dick’s other shoulder. He bowed his head and tried to… to understand, he supposed. This wasn’t about him, it was about Dick, and Dick didn’t need him freaking out, He needed him to hold it together.

He opened his eyes in surprise when he felt Dick shove something against his chest. It was his Titans communicator.

His expression had gone into mission mode. “And it’s not going to happen, like Bruce isn’t going to stop looking.”

“Dick?” Wally said when the boy turned away.

“I’ll have to make him, Wally,” Dick said ominously as he walked to the zeta-platform. He turned and gave the redhead a thin smile. “I don’t have any choice left.”

“Dick!” Wally blurred forward, but Robin was already gone.

 

\--

 

In a strange imitation of an earlier fight, Bruce returned home and found Dick perched on his bed. He was stroking the soft petals of the flourishing rose-plant, humming in tune with its song. He was also, inexplicably, in his pajamas.

Like he hadn’t been missing from the manor for weeks, and hadn’t set foot in Bruce’s room for even longer than that.

Rather than acknowledge the boy—young man? It chilled him to realize how close Dick was to reaching eighteen—he kept walking. This was a clear power play and Bruce was determined not to lose. He turned and shucked off his tie. Changed into his sleeping clothes right there, even when he felt the Dick’s gaze running across his bare back as he exchanged a formal button-down for a t-shirt.

Once finished, Bruce went into the bathroom.

He expected the boy to have left when he got out. Every other time Bruce had chosen to ignore him, Dick tended to either take the hint and waltz out with a pout; or grow annoyed and storm out with a frown.

Either way, leaving the room happened.

So finding Dick still sprawled across his covers when he returned was an honest surprise. Bruce opened his mouth. Closed it.

Finally, he said, “Dick, go to bed.”

“I am,” Dick said. He kicked his feet and Bruce glared at him. “You know, I realize I’ve been going at this all wrong.”

“How so,” Bruce said, walking to his side without hesitation. Refusing to get onto the bed with Dick on it would show weakness, like his presence there had any effect on him. The boy watched him with large, knowing eyes as Bruce settled beside him.

“I’ve been asking you to stop,” the teenager mused, “trying to say I didn’t care, you didn’t have to exhaust yourself for my sake.”

Bruce chose silence. He should’ve known better than to think Dick would have dropped their previous argument.

“But like I’ve said, it’s about you and not me.” Dick let go of the rose plant and leaned back in a—a tempting sprawl, his expression curious. “Why are you trying so hard to get my magic back? Clearly, I don’t want you to. Is it patronization? Guilt or obligation? But it’s none of those things, is it.”

Dick sat up and crawled to Bruce, who might as well have been a stone statue. He pressed himself against Bruce’s side like he was daring him to push him away. He placed his head on Bruce’s shoulder and whispered, “It’s always been a distraction, Bruce. Distracting you from how much you _want_ me.”

“Dick,” Bruce growled in warning, because Dick had never pushed this far. He’d never run his hands down his silk shirt and then back up to cradle his face. Bruce jerked his head away, but his ward was unrepentant. He leaned forward and mouthed Bruce’s stubbled jaw, and Bruce shivered. “Dick, _don’t._ ”

When Dick slipped his tongue into his mouth, Bruce had had enough. He shoved the boy back by the chest—and flinched when he couldn’t move away from the headboard. He barely kept an embarrassed flush from warming his cheeks. Dick had cuffed him while Bruce had been distracted by his faltering self-control. Amateurish mistake.

Dick shoved him just as gracelessly back against the wall and kissed him again. Bruce wanted to bite and throw Dick off and use the remainder of his magic to break free of the magical cuffs.

He wanted to give in and kiss back, to fall into temptation and never look back.

“Dick, stop it,” Bruce said when they parted for air. Dick pressed their foreheads together, giving Bruce a front-row seat to the mixed emotion on his face. Guilt pierced through him like a knife. He’d put that look there. He forced his voice to come out calm and even. “I don’t want this. Let me go now, and we’ll forget about it.”

Dick laughed. He pulled back and shook his head. “We’ve come too far, B. _I’ve_ come too far, and I know you know that.”

Bruce was damningly silent.

“I’m going to break,” Dick whispered into Bruce’s ear. “ _We’re_ going to break. We’re going to shatter into pieces, because _anything_ is better than what we have right now. You can’t hide behind that goddamn quest of yours anymore. It’s over, Bruce.”

He leaned back and unbuttoned his shirt. He tossed it haphazardly off the bed and looked at his somewhat horrified mentor with cool clarity. “It’s over.”

 

\--

 

Dick was warm and smooth and lithe, and what he lacked in experience he made up in enthusiasm. Still, enthusiasm could only go so far.

“You’re too tight,” Bruce said sharply at the way Dick grimaced, clearly attempting things he’d never really tried before. He’d taught him better than that, to always be prepared, but some dark part of himself enjoyed Dick’s innocence.

It was the same dark part that had liked Dick’s curious exploration of Bruce’s bare skin; liked it enough for him to get hard. And then Dick had straddled his lap and reached behind him, and Bruce had made one last attempted to buck him off.

Dick Grayson, acrobat and resident snugglebug, was clearly too used to clinging to wriggling objects. He hung on determinedly and then— really, did he think _that_ much lube was enough?

Bruce pressed his free hand to the boy’s chest, and Dick grabbed it and pinned it against the headboard. Bruce fought back and clutched him under his thigh, unceremoniously yanking Dick up and off.

“Don’t stop me,” the boy said huffily.

“I’m not,” Bruce snapped back, because his patience always ran short with Dick. “Put your arms around my neck.”

“No.”

“Put your arms around my neck and lift up on your knees.”

“ _No_.”

“Dick, that’s an order,” Bruce said. It should have felt ridiculous ordering the boy around like this, but years of using that voice against Dick’s bratty glare had him operating on habit. Shockingly, it worked.

Dick hissed at him but obeyed, wrapping trembling arms around Bruce’s neck and rising up on his knees. Too nervous and too apprehensive, all of which translated to too _tight_. Bruce faced the following situation with eerie calm.

(Dick had been right. He’d known this was coming. It was going to happen—and it should at least happen without Dick getting hurt.)

Bruce raised his free hand and stroked up his thigh. Up to his waist and then down as far as he could go, until the trembling had mostly faded.

And then on his next upward sweep, he ran his hand behind Dick and cupped his ass. Dick jumped but didn’t tense up. Just let out a surprised sigh when Bruce began caressing him, and another surprised noise when he drew him into a kiss. A filthy, hair-rising kiss far more aggressive than Dick’s tentative one, because when Bruce dedicated himself to something, he was _excellent_ at it.

“B-Bruce,” Dick gasped when they parted. His face was flushed red, his expression vulnerable and really, like Bruce needed any more reminders of why he was _going to hell_. Bruce kissed him again, and this time the boy eagerly kissed back. It was hot and melting and so earnest Bruce couldn’t help but let out a low groan when Dick plastered himself against his chest. The boy clearly wasn’t afraid of taking what he wanted, unabashedly pressing his erection against his stomach as he ravished his mouth.

“Yeah,” Dick sighed and kissed him again, over and over. “ _Bruce_ …”

He arched when Bruce released his thoroughly molested ass and ran his hand up his side, feeling the muscles under his touch shiver and twitch. He broke off their next kiss to nuzzle Dick’s neck. Let the boy feel his warmth, his breath. Let him feel how nice sex could be, because that was the least he could do in this situation.

“It should feel good,” he said.

“What about you.”

“Me?” Bruce startled when Dick kissed his temple.

“You’re feeling good, aren’t you?” the boy whispered, half earnest question and half torturous tease. Before Bruce could say anything, Dick answered by pressing wet lips back onto his. Slender hands cradled the Bruce’s face. It was easy to get caught up in this, this lazy and generous exploration. The beautiful sounds of Dick sighing in pleasure, relaxing under his palm and just—everything Bruce had guiltily imagined when his self-control cracked and the dark thoughts came rolling in.

It was his best dream and worst nightmare come true at once. Of course it was: that was the point. And Bruce was a fool to think he could stop the tide.

“Take off the handcuffs,” he murmured the next time they caught their breaths. Dick snorted and pressed kisses to his chin, his cheek, and all the way up to the top of his head. “Dick.”

“You think I’m going to fall for that, B?” Dick shook his head. He curled up against him and put a hand to Bruce’s exposed chest beneath his unbuttoned shirt. “Not going to happen.”

“I’m not going to run,” Bruce said. He looked Dick in the eye. “I promise.”

Dick’s lip trembled. He glanced away for a split moment, unsure, but perhaps guilt was a greater motivator than Bruce had thought.

“Alright,” the boy finally whispered. He tapped the cuffs three times and muttered the word that would set it free. He watched them clang open. Bruce massaged the skin of his freed wrist for a long moment—and then scooped Dick into his arms and pulled him into his lap.

“Bruce!” Dick laughed, more out of surprise than anything, and laughed again when he rearranged his legs into a more accessible position. “You can’t just—ah!”

“Dick,” Bruce sighed. Something in the air had changed; with Bruce’s hand unpinned, he’d passed the line from unwilling victim to active participant. Or maybe he’d always been an active participant.

He used one hand to cup Dick’s firm ass from below and the other to find the bottle of lube on the bed. He uncapped it and applied far more lube around his entrance. The boy squirmed at the cool wetness, the casual fondling, and Bruce felt his cock thicken at the sight. He said, chiding, “You shouldn’t have taken charge without proper preparation.”

“Shut up,” Dick’s muttered, face burning red at being scolded. He looked adorable. Even more so when Bruce worked a finger into him and watched the minute shifts in Dick’s expression. Discomfort to confusion to something headier when he brushed up against his sweet spot. The boy licked his lips and tilted his head back. Concentrated entirely on Bruce’s finger inside, and he was so hot and soft Bruce couldn’t help but add another.

When Dick opened his eyes again, they were wet—but not in pain.

“What,” Bruce said. He let Dick move closer, until their chests were pressed together and Dick’s head was resting on his shoulder.

“Nothing,” Dick said, sounding vulnerable. “I just—I don’t want to—”

“Stick by your decision,” Bruce said, sounding perhaps a bit too cold.

“I don’t want to leave,” Dick whined, starting to really break. It cut Bruce like a knife to see him like this, the part that would give Dick the world. “I—I don’t, I—I love you so much, which is why—“

“Dick,” Bruce said in a gentler tone. He pulled the boy more fully on top of him. “It’s why you need to _go_.”

He added a third finger and thrilled at the way Dick gasped and curled into him. God. _God._ He let him adjust to the stretch for a bit longer before beginning to scissor him open. “Finish what you started so you can get away from me. Run as far as you can before I swallow you whole.”

 

\--

 

Dick felt like his entire body was tingling. On fire.

“Bruce,” he gasped as the man gently rolled hips into him. It was sinfully hot and full and so different from before, what with both of Bruce’s hands lifting up his ass and the easy slip of—“Bruce, that feels—”

“Hush,” and Bruce’s voice was no more than a growl. A purring reminder that Bruce was enjoying himself, that he was turned on and feeling just as good as Dick did right now. Dick enjoyed seeing the Batman lose his composure far more than he should. Even more so when the man whispered into his ear, “You’re so _tight_ , it’s… Dick, you’re _perfect_.”

“Hmm,” Dick said intelligently, bracing his hands on the man’s shoulders and working his own hips down. Fluttering his eyes shut at that tantalizing drag of Bruce’s cock inside of him, stretching him open and thrusting deep enough for his breath to catch. For his heart to stutter. This was _sex_. He was having sex with _Bruce_ , and he didn’t want it to stop.

They were as close as they could get, in body and spirit, the closest imitation to the bond they shared when Dick poured his magic into Bruce—

“You’re so good,” Dick sighed into Bruce’s mouth, because despite having his cock untouched Dick felt like he was going to come at any moment. He felt like he was being opened up, every layer peeled back and exposed to Bruce's touch— “ _So good_. You know I—you know I’m yours, don’t you? No matter what—”

“Dick—”

“I won’t accept anyone else,” Dick shook his head. “Tell me— _ah_ —”

Bruce didn’t say anything more. Just grabbed him by the hips and thrust into him hard and steady until Dick’s entire vocabulary dissolved into breathy huffs and moans and the occasional “Yes,” right until the his entire body locked. The tingling rose to hair-rising levels, and it was like his soul was being electrified.

“Oh,” he gasped, and came between their stomachs. He shuddered as Bruce rolled his hips a few more times before pulling out. Considerate of Dick’s oversensitivity, obviously, which was so Batman-standards sweet of him. He stroked his cock with his hand instead, and Dick watched the slick movement between them with curious eyes. His penis was flushed red and slick with—with pre-cum and lube and how had he fit something that big in his body? It was obscene. He gently gripped Bruce’s wrist and let himself feel the movement of his hand, ignoring the startled grunt his touch incited. He wanted to feel.

He pressed soft kisses to Bruce’s face once it seemed like the man was getting close, and kept kissing until Bruce hissed and finally came.

Dick didn’t remember how they went from that to him being wiped off and tucked under the covers. He didn’t particularly care, not with that tingling shock spreading from his core to his limbs and back again. Bruce slipped into bed beside him, and Dick immediately cuddled up against his side.

As he dozed off with his head pillowed on Bruce’s chest, he swore he heard Bruce whisper: “Yes, I know.”

 

\--

 

For the first time ever, the dream continued.

He sank lifelessly to the bottom of the lake—tossed aside like a broken sword and shattered into a hundred pieces. His magic writhed against the stone shackles. One second. Two. His breathed his last breath—

And his magic sang.

It sang a sad song, a despairing song, and with it flooded the lake with its power. Strange plants grew along the lake’s shore: foliage of impossible colors and shapes and sizes. A trail of metal-blue roses made their way to his final resting place, gleaming brighter than even the best-kept sword.

And when Merlin cast his final spell to bring Camelot's souls forward in time, the roses stayed behind. It wasn’t every body of water that could claim the life of Arthur’s most powerful weapon. The mighty Excalibur destroyed not by magic nor battle nor sacrifice: but by something as human as love and betrayal.

And so the roses stayed behind in the Lake of Avalon and sang, because reincarnation didn’t wipe away the sins of the past.

Because mistakes needed to be remembered.

 

\--

 

When Dick woke up that morning, the entire bedroom was covered in beautiful, metal-blue roses. It was stunning, and it brought tears to his eyes.

Bruce was awake. He lay with his eyes closed, facing away from Dick, which meant he’d wanted him to leave with dignity. Too bad. Like he was going to just up and _go_.

“Goodbye, Bruce,” Dick whispered, leaning over and kissing his cheek. He stroked Bruce’s hair for a bit, and fought back a smile when the man twitched. Almost like: _why aren’t you gone already?_ He kissed his cheek again before sniffing and sitting back up.

Most of his things were already at the Watchtower, but he needed to get a change of clothes from his room.

He considered this as he, with barely any conscious thought, crawled out of bed and made his way to the door.

Except the floor was covered in rose thorns, and it wasn’t until he touched down that he realized he’d been walking safely on air the whole time.

Like magic.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, so trying to balance plot with character development in this chapter was hell. Hope everything came out readable in the end — especially the whole case with Merlin trapping Excalibur in stone. That follows the original story pretty closely (only the one true king can pull the sword from the stone; otherwise, the sword is useless); it just figures it'd take Bruce SIX YEARS to finally claim Dick as his own. Using his words. Honestly, B. 
> 
> Some foreshadowing to the greater plot with R'as and Talia making a reappearance. They'll start plotting for real next chapter.
> 
> Other random worldbuilding things I couldn't fit in:
> 
> \- Barry Allen was investigating a crime when he came across the Speed Talisman. The artifact found him worthy of its powers and opened a connection between this world and the one occupied by the Speed Force, giving him super speed. The Talisman can duplicate itself depending on how many people it finds worthy. There was a huge scandal because Barry's a muggle, and the wizards demanded all magical artifacts be handed over to the Establishment... thankfully Bruce Wayne intervened and established legal precedent for muggles to keep magical artifacts :P
> 
> \- Eudaemons are light-aligned spirits from a dimension very close to Earth's. They are telepathic, can phase through physical objects, can enter wizarding mindscapes and act as a conduit between different magics, and are one of the few creatures capable of creating zeta platforms (which are floo-networks that send people through dimensions rather than space.) Their greatest weakness is their inability to stand Dark magic. J'onn plays a more background role because of this, since their enemy the Dark is, understandably... dark. 
> 
> \- Roy's charmed bow has a rune carved in it. All he has to do is say a specific word, and the right arrow will materialize from a similarly-spelled chest he keeps in a safehouse. One case of muggles being able to use pre-spelled artifacts.
> 
> \- Wayne Tech has finally started producing technology that can work in tandem with magic. Wizards are slowly discovering the joys of TV and laptop computers, lol.
> 
> \- Feel free to ask questions. I'm probably going to go back to this chapter and rewrite things to be clearer, too.


	3. Part Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ve got my work cut out for me, I suppose,” the witch finally said and cracked her knuckles.
> 
> Dick resisted the urge to turn heel and flee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ughhh so Part three became so long I had to split it right in half into Parts Three and Four (increasing the chapter size to six why). But since Part three was supposed to be read altogether, I'm posting both parts at once :P
> 
> WHICH MEANS A DOUBLE UPDATE
> 
> The Zatanna that appears here is pretty much the YJ cartoon one. I though she and Dick were really cute there. I kept her nickname "Zee" from the comics, though it's Dick that calls her this and not Bruce. Also, in relation to the HP universe, this whole thing takes place decades after the Second Wizarding War. Rather than placing the universe in the future, I moved the Wizarding Wars back in time so they correlated with WWI + WWII. Hope that makes sense; the HP aspect is the more peripheral one though this chapter introduces some familiar characters!

Dick sneezed under his umbrella, wondering how the hell London, England could have even worse weather than ass-end Gotham City. He’d become accustomed to smog and gray skies and the all-permeating smell of gasoline by the docks. He thought he was ready for anything.

He just wasn’t used to all this _rain_.

“Dick,” he received a phone call an hour after he exited the Portkey station and successfully resisted the urge to throw up from travel-sickness. He’d wandered into a muggle café after half an hour in the bathroom and attempted to eat a rock pretending to be a scone. “I received your resignation notice this morning.”

“Hello, Bruce,” Dick said in a faux-cheerful voice. Misery loved company, and Dick felt pretty miserable under these gray, wet circumstances. “How are you doing? Alfred told me you’ve kidnapped a boy off the street, what’s up with that?”

“The Justice League and Teen Titans need you, Dick. Don’t let your personal feelings get in the way of your work.”

So that’s how he was going to play it. “My _work_ is up in the air at the moment. Not everyone has a family fortune to mooch off of; I’d like my independence sometime this decade. And it’s not like there aren’t a million other heroes able to step up to the plate. They’ll be fine.”

“You’re being irresponsible.”

“Do I sound like I care?”

A seething pause, and Dick poked at his scone so hard it flew off his plate and smacked into the wall. An old lady sitting at the table in front of him turned and glared, and Dick gave her a sheepish grin.

“Clark and Diana have been asking for you,” Bruce finally said, voice unreadable. “Also, I think Wally West is a second from breaking into the Batcave to see where I’ve hidden your body.”

“Like you’d hide a corpse in the Batcave, of all places.”

“ _Dick_.”

“I’m an adult, Bruce. I can make my own damn decisions and suffer the consequences,” Dick’s voice hardened. “Do you accept my resignation or not?”

Bruce’s dark silence descended upon them both, which was amazing given that the entire Atlantic lay between them.

Finally, the Batman said, “Fine. I will take your name off of the JLA roster. Goodbye, Dick.”

“Bye, B,” Dick said softly. He looked at the phone once the call ended and clutched it hard in his hand. He took a deep breath and remained sitting, despite the overwhelming urge to walk right back to the Portkey center and go home. God, he’d worked so hard to get Alfred to recommend him a magical tutor overseas. He couldn’t let it go to waste over sentiment.

He sniffed and went to put away his cup and plate. Then, with a deep breath, he opened up his umbrella and ducked back outside and into the downpour.

 

\--

 

“Zatanna Zatara,” the woman introduced herself with an easy smile. “I’ve worked a few cases overseas with the JLA before, though I don’t remember if I’ve met you. Pennyworth was a good friend of my father’s before…” she looked down for a split moment, “…before, well. I took over.”

“I’m sorry?” Dick offered, and she shook her head and beckoned him inside the quaint apartment. Despite being in a muggle neighborhood, it was clearly wizarding space: tomes in bookshelves; little critters running about the floor; and beautiful terrariums floating high up near the ceiling, which was more than twice as tall as the apartment should have been.

“Dick, right? Sit, no need to be so formal.” Zatanna said, plopping onto the kitchen table and crossing her legs. She was startlingly young... perhaps only a few years older than him. “So… what do you need to learn?”

“I’m not sure how much Alfred said,” Dick started—and the floating lamp beside the table suddenly exploded. The clock on the wall and a strange contraption on the counter soon followed suit.

“Dleihs eht ecaps dnuora su morf skciD cigam!” Zatanna called out with an outstretched hand, and the trail of destruction stopped. She frowned at Dick, who shrunk back in his seat.

“I’ve got my work cut out for me, I suppose,” the witch finally said and cracked her knuckles.

Dick resisted the urge to turn heel and flee.

Zatanna, young or not, proved to be a ruthless teacher. She banished him to the living room after he nearly tore the walls down in his sleep—nightmares, obviously, because Morgana still haunted his dreams—and he spent a week sulking on the floor before she finally magicked him up a cot.

Apparently, she’d expected him to transfigure one himself. Dick felt like a toddler who kept wetting the bed despite his parents’ best efforts to teach him.

“Up,” Zatanna swatted him one morning. “Gotta get some meditative exercises done. Merlin’s called for my help on some case of theirs, and I need to leave by seven.”

Merlin. JLA. Right. Dick rolled onto his stomach and slowly curled up onto his knees. “You have a zeta platform around here?”

“There’s one in the Ministry,” Zatanna said, making a face. “Which means I’ll have to put on my _robes._ You wanna come with?”

“No.”

“Come on, it’ll be a good way to exercise your control. And it’s not like you’re a complete stranger to—”

“ _No,_ Zee,” Dick snapped, so angry the coffee table between them cracked in half with sickening sound.

Zatanna looked at her table. She looked at Dick. She folded her arms. “Well alright, then, grumpy-pants. I guess I’ll go off to make sure the Round Table does Britain proud. _You,_ on the other hand, can stay home and fix the table.”

Dick gave her an incredulous look. “I can’t even fix a cracked marble, and you want me to _fix the table.”_

“You’ve got six hours and there are spellbooks in the bookcase,” the infuriating woman drawled. “I’m not going to hold your hand the entire way. You’re old enough to drive, you’re old enough to teach yourself _baby magic_.”

Dick fumed, mostly in embarrassment. She was right. If he’d been acting this bratty under Bruce’s tutelage, the man would’ve grounded him from patrol for a week. Dick was an excellent student when he tried, which made it all the more obvious whenever he dragged his feet.

Pissed off and tired, he crawled over to the bookshelf and dumped a pile of undoubtedly old, precious books onto the floor.

“I’m onto you,” he hissed at them. He was tempted to go through meditation, to harness magic as Zatanna had tried drilling into his head—except that clearly wasn’t working. Traditional magic had never really worked, which was why Alfred’s lessons had always been more useful than the ones from wizarding elementary.

Instead, he focused on a single intention— _search_ —and swept his magic into an arc over the books. Immediately, each book flipped open and landed on the most relevant page regarding table repair; those that came up empty flew back onto the shelf on their own.

Dick took a deep breath. Exhaled. Then, he went to work.

When Zatanna came back from the Watchtower looking tired but triumphant, Dick had not only fixed the coffee table, but also the two windows he’d accidentally cracked last night.

Zatanna clicked her tongue approvingly and sat down beside him on the couch.

“You know, the strangest thing happened today,” she told him, not bothering to comment on Dick’s _amazing accomplishment._ She took off her top hat with a “Tup ti yawa,” and sent it careening towards the open closet. “Well, a lot of strange things tend to happen. It’s the _Round Table_ of Camelot. Birthplace of magic and all that hoo-ha. Even if King Arthur’s as sour as grapes.”

Dick, who was typing on his tablet, intentionally kept his face down so she couldn’t read his expression. Not that he wasn’t a master at faking emotion, but it was an unnecessary risk.

“No, but something _extra_ weird happened.” Zatanna pulled a box out of her pocket and handed it over. Dick’s heart seized when he saw it. He knew this box. He'd run his hand across its soft wood sometimes when Bruce had been gone too long and he missed him so much he ached.

“Arthur—Batman—he gave this to me before I left,” she said. “Not that he explained himself much. I was like ‘What, for me?’ and he just scowled and told me it wasn’t for me. And then he walked away.” A pause. “Which is kind of a roundabout way of saying its for _you,_ right? Unless I got this all wrong and you have no idea what it is, in which case I want it back.”

“No,” Dick jerked the box away when she made a grab for it. “It’s mine.”

“In-ter-esting,” she enunciated, tapping her chin. “Batman knows who you are. Then again, he probably knows who everyone is, though the fact that he gave you a gift…”

“Stop deducing my identity,” Dick said.

“Can you blame me?”

“I’m sure you can look it up in the JLA computer. You’ve got my _real name_ , it’ll be a piece of cake.”

“But that’ll be _cheating_ ,” Zatanna pouted.

Dick ignored her and went back to typing on his tablet. When it became obvious that he wasn’t going to open the box in her presence, the witch rolled her eyes and flounced off to her bedroom.

Once the coast was clear, he opened the box and took out the wand inside. Thomas Wayne’s wand was dark and regal and had always fit snugly in Bruce’s hand. Even if, for him, the wand had been little more than a glorified prop.

“Hello,” he whispered, and was mortified to find his voice sounding wet. He pressed the wand to his chest and could’ve sworn he felt the familiar warmth of Bruce’s presence curl inside him. It was peaceful and almost encouraging, and Dick let himself smile just a bit.

They’d never been good with words.

 

\--

 

Zatanna didn’t ask when Dick inexplicably began using a wand during lessons. She was too busy raising a brow at his sudden improvement: going from struggling with fixing tables to transfiguring furniture within a week.

“You’ve been holding out on me, hot shot,” she elbowed him. “You’re actually _good_ at learning, aren’t you?”

“Perhaps it’s the teacher,” Dick declared, and she just raised an eyebrow at him. Probably for being a shameless brown-noser. So it only surprised him a little when, that night, she went on a seemingly off-topic ramble after dinner.

“I’ve got experience on both sides, you know. Had to learn magic from scratch when I was eleven and went to Hogwarts,” she took off her jacket and tossed it onto the couch. In nothing but a skinny tank-top, she leaned back onto her elbows and sighed. “You have to understand, the magic my dad and I used… Da Vinci magic, it’s a magical art passed through our blood. When we were Italy, we used it for everything, and I was amazing at it. But Hogwarts has a more… standard European education, and they expect everyone to use _classic_ magic. So there I was, surrounded by kids who either lived with classic magic all their life; or were a fresh plate who didn’t even know what magic was. And I couldn’t even cast a simple levitating charm first year because I kept trying to follow the rules of backward magic instead.”

“At least you can use magic when you really needed to,” Dick told her. “I can’t even do that.”

“No, you’re missing my point,” she said. She stretched her arms over her head, and for the first time Dick realized that she might be flirting with him. Skinny-tank top and showy cleavage. Hm. “I’m saying it’s okay to have difficulty channeling one kind of magic into another. Most witches and wizards find classic magic the easiest to work with, but those who grew up using a different magic have to spend extra effort translating between the two.”

Maybe he should tell her he was gay. No need to go into uncomfortable detail regarding him and Bruce and their awkward, inappropriate Great Destiny of a Relationship; for one, it wasn’t her business, and for another, he didn’t want to give her any more details to suss out his superhero identity with. She was far too clever.

“You’re not even listening to me,” Zatanna kicked him. He kicked her back reflexively. “Dick!”

“What?”

“I’m saying _I’ve_ been going about this wrong too,” she crossed her arms. “I mean sure, you were acting like a petulant toddler and that wasn’t helping—but my lessons were made for someone who just discovered pure magic. For someone learning from scratch, not someone who’s trying to change _one_ form of magic into _another_.”

“What?” Dick blinked at her.

“I finally know why Pennyworth called me, of all people,” Zatanna said. “And the first thing we need to do is assess what kind of magical technique’s your default. See which rules can be transferred over to a classic technique.”

Dick wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that. “And how are we going to figure that out?”

“Simple,” Zatanna said—and then sent a fireball hurling at his head.

 

\--

 

Zee totally deserved nearly getting her hands sliced off.

“I told you not to touch them,” Dick said testily. “But no, you just had to touch. Why does everyone want to touch?”

“Because roses are usually soft and pretty, not _evil razors in disguise_ ,” Zatanna shot back while clutching her profusely bleeding hand. She went into the kitchen for a bandage—or, let’s be honest, _bandages_ —and Dick sniffed in his cocoon of metal-blue roses. He crawled out on his hands and knees and glared at the near-spherical, perfectly arranged assortment of flowers. 

“Okay, that’s enough,” he told the ball of Excalibur Death. “I’m _fine_ , she just startled me.”

The roses refused to disappear. He ended up having to shrink it down from the size of an adult man to that of a large bird cage, and hid the whole thing in the guest room Zatanna still wouldn’t let him sleep in. If she tripped over the rose-ball during the night and sliced her legs off for real, she’d never let him hear the end of it.

“Well,” Zatanna declared once she returned. She’d put some sort of healing ointment on her hand, and fierce girl that she was, the pain didn’t seem to faze her. “Transfiguring one object to another isn’t weird. But in your case, the roses weren’t transfigured from anything. They just appeared instinctively. Not a shield. Not a phrase or word magic of any sort. They came from _you._ ” A small furrow in her brow. “That’s blood magic.”

“Okay…?”

Zatanna tilted her head. “Blood magic’s a very… intentional form of magic. Instinctual and raw. The death roses are a _literal expression_ of your magic. Roses. Beautiful but dangerous because of its thorns. And in this case even more dangerous because of those razor petals. Razors. The color, it’s like a—” Zee’s eyes lit up like she just understood something. “The color’s like a sword.”

“Yes, swords are made of metal,” Dick told her. She smacked his arm with her good hand for being a smart-ass. “So what’s your conclusion, oh Wise One?”

“My conclusion is that we need to focus on intentional, goal-based lessons and not on magical theory. Which is helpful for me to know."

Dick wanted to leave it unsaid, but he couldn’t. Not about this. “No, I mean the other thing.”

“…I need to double-check my theories first,” Zatanna said, not bothering to feign ignorance. And then she paused and looked at him carefully. “Unless you don’t want me to…?”

And Dick—Dick had spent the last month fighting loneliness. It was tiring and ridiculous and kept him infuriatingly prisoner, and hadn’t he come here to learn how to control his magic? Not hide away from it like he’d done all his life. Not keep _relevant information_ from the one person who could help him for real, who literally had close to no stake in the sordid history of a stranger.

“You can,” he finally said, looking her in the eye. She fearlessly stared back. “But please keep my identity to yourself. I need space, Zee, and I’ll probably hate you forever if you bring the Justice League down on my head.”

“Who do you think I am,” Zatanna sniffed, though her expression was otherwise deadly serious. “Don’t worry, Dick. I know a thing or two about wanting some alone time… to figure things out.”

“Okay.”

“Okay?”

“And don’t tell Batman you’re looking,” Dick added, because the last thing he needed was for Bruce to interrogate the poor girl. No one deserved that.

“You two _do_ have a history,” Zatanna accused, and Dick pretended to go deaf for a moment. She took his silence as a yes and muttered something under her breath, and Dick spent the rest of the night worrying if he’d made the right call in the end.

Still, something inside of him did feel lighter. Easier. When he crawled into his cot and stared up at the mobiles hanging from the high ceiling, he actually felt like things were going to get better.

 

\--

 

“No one will come for you,” Morgana said, voice calm. “No one will even notice you are gone. Not until it’s too late.”

“Mordred,” Excalibur reached out towards the boy standing silently at his mother’s side. “You don’t—you don’t have to do this.”

The boy slowly shook his head, even as Excalibur began to cough and flail. The lake was devouring him.

“You don’t,” he managed around the hand clutching his throat.

“I don’t have a choice,” Mordred told him, less convicted and more resigned. “This is fate.”

“Mor…”

“And you can’t change fate,” the boy declared—and Excalibur’s heart broke just a bit, because he’d failed this boy. He and Arthur and the entire Round Table had failed him, and that was in itself the greatest tragedy of all.

Dick woke up, his chest heavy with inexplicable sadness. It was awful, awful enough that his entire being ached for Bruce. He wanted warm, familiar comfort; the soft sheets of his bed and the steady way his chest rose and fell with each breath; the pure scent of him when he pressed his nose into the soft curls at his nape. He lay there considering the pros and cons of calling Bruce up. It was pathetic.

A faint rustling noise came from Zatanna’s mobiles above. Dick looked up just in time to see a flash of something feathered—and then it was gone.

“Dick,” Bruce’s voice, strong and steady, came out as clear as Wayne Tech royalty. “It’s past two in London right now.”

“Yup,” Dick popped the ‘p.’ He tugged the covers over himself and lay his cell phone on the pillow.

“Do you need assistance?”

“Can’t I just call?”

A beat, and then, “Dick, you never call.”

Not since Alfred had broken the news that Bruce had kidnapped a street urchin and handed off the Robin title like an old pair of shoes. Dick had been furious. Jealous. He was _Excalibur_ ; who the hell was this kid that Bruce had replaced him with?

(He knew it wasn’t rational or fair, but Dick wasn't perfect. He’d cut the problem off altogether by refusing to call home… until now.)

“Can’t you humor me, B?” and despite Dick’s best efforts, his voice cracked just a bit. “Talk about something that happened today. Or something you’re thinking of. I don’t care.”

There was a long enough pause that Dick wondered if Bruce was going to say no, and then the man on the other end of the line sighed.

“Jason got into a fight at school this morning," he said, and Dick resisted the urge to hang up. He _had_ told Bruce that he could talk about anything, after all. “He’s not used to Gotham Academy. Doesn’t get along with the kids there. He’s made one or two friends, but he’s defensive enough he ends up warding off everyone else. Alfred disciplined him, but even that doesn’t work. I’m not sure how to handle him.”

“Sounds kind of like you,” Dick said.

“The only answer I have now is patience.”

“Wow, look at that. The street urchin needs time to trust some rich guy who swept him off his feet? He probably thought you wanted to sleep with him.”

“ _Dick_ ,” Bruce said.

“Like the Gotham Gazette didn’t print racier speculation articles. I do keep up, you know.”

Bruce didn’t bother responding, just hummed in his vague, no-meaning way. He kept talking, and Dick kept making his own snarky commentary, and things were… almost okay. Still, Dick was acutely aware of all the words they were skirting around. Everything from _I miss you,_ to _When are you coming home,_ to _Are you even going to come home?_

“It’s normal to have nightmares,” Bruce finally said once Dick had almost drifted off to sleep. It didn’t take a genius to figure out why Dick had called in the middle of the night. “To my knowledge, many of the reincarnated group have them.”

“You think we can change what happened?” Dick got to the heart of the matter. “So many sources say what happened to Camelot was fate. What if… what if it all happens again?”

“Fate is an excuse used to absolve one of responsibility. We make our own choices, Dick, and the consequences of those choices are already present in the heroes today,” and Dick could almost hear the words underlying that.

Excalibur would’ve never willingly left Arthur’s side; not like Dick had left Bruce.

“G’night, B,” Dick cut off their conversation while things were still pleasant. End on a nice note for once and not in an inevitable argument, where Dick would hiss and rant into the phone and Bruce’s silence would just egg him further. Then, before he could think twice about it, he whispered, “Love you,” and hung up the phone.

He closed his eyes and exhaled. He dreamed of nothing but darkness.

 

\--

 

There was an owl on the refrigerator.

It was big and fluffy and mostly black, with a brilliant line of blue across its feathers. It was also quite vocal, having woken Dick up in the living room with its constant _Charrs_ and _Whooos_.

“How’d you get in here,” Dick told it crabbily, and just harrumphed when it hopped off the fridge and onto his shoulder. Its talons would’ve hurt like hell, but Dick was getting better at automatic shielding magic. “You leave a message for Zee or something?”

“ _Charr_.”

“I don’t have owl treats,” he told it and opened the fridge.

The owl wouldn’t leave. It followed Dick around like a puppy, which did endear him to it just a little, and was overall too friendly to be wild. Zatanna stumbled into the kitchen at one in the afternoon and sniffed at the owl perching imperiously on her chair.

“Why’s there an owl,” she said, and Dick cursed. “What?”

“I thought _you’d_ know,” he admitted. The owl preened its wings. “No tag, no ownership spells. It’s been here since morning.”

“Maybe it’s a gift?” Zatanna hazarded—which was a definite possibility given the way Bruce threw his money around. But B hadn’t mentioned anything over the phone and the owl seemed to instinctively know Dick was its owner, which was impossible.

“I think I’ll call you Nightwing,” he told the owl after an entire day of bonding with it, and it trilled in agreement. Nearly silhouetted by the high noon sun, its feathers shone like finely polished metal.

 

\--

 

(When he went to clean out the guest room to give Nightwing a space to relax, he discovered that the rose cocoon was gone.

Well, at least that was one less thing to worry about.)

 

\--

 

Zatanna often disappeared in the afternoon for hours at a time—probably earning a living rather than mooching off a trust fund like Dick—and would teach Dick either in the morning or evening depending on if she was running a mission for the JLA that day too.

“The next mission’s going to take place through a new dimensional gate that J’onn managed to open,” Zatanna told him one morning. Nightwing took the opportunity to steal bits of Dick’s watery scrambled eggs. “The recon team’s expected to spend a few days there. You good on your own?”

“I’m a grown man, Zee,” Dick waved a hand. “I’ll be fine.”

“You never go out and you don’t cook,” Zatanna put her hands on her hips. “…just don’t starve to death, okay? Your corpse will stink up the apartment.”

“It takes more than a few days to starve to death,” Dick told her, and she made a face at him that said _That wasn’t the point_ in all her beautiful, proficient glory. He had enough self-preservation not to admit he wouldn't miss her cooking.

Having the apartment to himself was an experience. Mostly because all of Zatanna’s little critters came out to play, and Dick would find walking leaves and strange little puffballs wriggling in his clothes and hair and even on Nightwing, to the owl’s distress.

He had to spent an impromptu afternoon teaching himself warding magic from the bookcase, and was not in the mood when someone started banging the front door after dinner.

“Zatanna!” a man’s voice called out. “Zatanna, open the door!”

Dick had half a mind to ignore him—who knew, maybe it was one of Zee’s evil ex-boyfriends—but Nightwing nipped that in the bud by flying to the front door and landing on the handle. The door swung open, and a thirty-something man fell right inside.

Dick curled a hand around the wand in his pocket.

“Zatanna?” the man shot up and looked around him. “Look, I know you’re busy looking for your father but _this is serious_.”

“May I help you?” Dick called out, and the man whipped out a wand and pointed it at him.

“Who are you?” he said.

“Who are _you_ ,” Dick countered. He raised a hand and let Nightwing settle on his forearm. “And why the hell are you looking for Zee?”

“There’s an—there’s an incident at Hogwarts, and none of the other professors are equipped to handle it,” the man said. He looked around the door and at the cot on the floor and then turned back to Dick. “Zatanna might be on sabbatical, but she’s still our Professor of Alternative Magic. Classic magic isn't working, so... wait, are you her boyfriend?”

“No,” Dick said, “Are you?”

The man looked affronted. “Goodness no! Look, that doesn’t matter. Do you know where I can find her?”

“Well, she’s off in some other dimension right now with the Justice League,” Dick said conversationally. “And she’s not due back for another three days.”

“Goddammit,” the man cursed. “Fucking—bloody—hell! Neville’s going to _kill us_ if we can’t get him out. Our relations with muggleborns is bad enough as it was after Muggle Studies was canceled!”

Dick narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you have anything against muggleborns?”

The man paused and seemed to actually see him for the first time. “Are you muggleborn?”

“Why?”

“Do you know how to use wizarding technology,” and the man grabbed him by the shoulders like this was life or death. “Please tell me you know how to use Wayne Tech!”

Seeing as Wayne Tech had been specifically designed for Dick as a child, this was a non-starter. “Of course I do.”

The man stared at him. Finally, he let him go and brushed off his robes.

“You’ll have to do, then,” he stuck out his hand. “Albus Potter, Professor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts. And you are…?”

“Dick Grayson,” Dick took his hand without fear.

“Well, Mister Grayson,” Professor Potter said before raising his wand. “You’re going to help us find a student.”

“Don’t you guys have spells to locate a missing student?”

“Oh, he’s not lost in the castle,” Albus sighed. “The poor boy’s gotten himself lost inside his Wayne Tech Tablet.”

 

\--

 

The intimidating visage of a Scottish Castle really did make the whole place feel like it was from the nineteenth and not the twenty-first century. He’d once thought Donna had been joking when she said Europe was quaint but a bit behind the times, but no.

Especially if no one in this giant-ass castle could figure out how to handle Wayne Tech, an entire brand of technology marketed to the stodgiest of traditional wizards.

“Who is this?” an Auror called out once Professor Potter had led him through some bizarre staircases and up into a spiraling tower. She was dressed differently than the ones in Gotham, but there were enough similarities that Dick stood up just a bit straighter.

“Mister Grayson,” the professor introduced. “One of Professor Zatara’s associates.”

“And where’s the good professor?”

“On sabbatical,” Dick said before Albus could open his mouth. He twitched. The magical wards and presence of the castle were invasive and rude: his own magic seemed to surge and twist under the castle’s merciless exploration of his intentions. “Now what happened?”

They led him to what appeared to be a boy’s dormitory decorated in bronze and blue. On one unmade bed sat an innocent-looking Wayne Tech tablet; beside it, someone had set up a pensieve. One of those old-style pensieves, too. Dick made a face at it. Everyone at home just used the pensieve projectors, it was more useful in large crowds and was far better for one's neck.

“Mister Carmine has been having difficulty adjusting with the other first-year Ravenclaws,” the Auror said. She waved the men over to the pensieve. “One of the other students agreed to show us a memory of the incident.”

Viewing pensieves didn't help his motion-sickness, but Dick was _Robin_. So he soon found himself watching a group of boys wrestling a tablet away from a small, dark-haired boy that reminded him eerily of a younger him. 

“Whatcha gonna do, Carmine?” a large boy sneered down at his victim. “Tattle to Professor Flitwick?”

“Give that back!” Carmine made a grab for his tablet. “I’m—I’m talking to someone!”

“Who is it? Your mum?”

“Shut up!” Carmine made another grab. “I’m serious, Klaus!”

Jeering laughs and hoots, and then Carmine managed to grab the tablet and pressed it to his chest. Klaus got right into his face and jabbed a finger at him.

“You’re at Hogwarts now, loser. No one wants to see that kind of muggle technology here. You want that thing so bad, then maybe you shoulda stayed at home.”

“I’m a wizard,” Carmine said quietly. “And this tablet’s for—it was built for wizards—”

“Why would wizards need _that_?” Klaus said.

Carmine’s eyes flashed and he sat up. “To get away from _jerks like you!_ ”—and then there was a blinding flash, one that sent the jeering boys toppling backwards in surprise.

When the light faded, Carmine was gone, and only the tablet remained on his bed.

Dick came up for air and felt his neck already beginning to ache. He shook his head as Professor Potter and the Auror talked to each other in low tones.

“We’ve already checked the area for transportation spells or any kind of apparation designed to bypass the wards, which is near-impossible as you know. In the end, we picked up trace signs of his magic around the tablet. Though how he could transport himself into a man-made piece of… of numbers and binary code…”

“He didn’t,” Dick said.

“Excuse me?” the Auror turned around.

“He didn’t _literally_ go into the tablet,” Dick said. He reached over and, ignoring the Auror’s exclamations, picked the tablet up and turned it over to check the serial number. “Wayne Tech tablets are built specifically for wizards. Muggle tech shorts out around magic because the energy fluctuation is far too much for wiring alone to deal with. B—I mean, the scientists at WT accommodated that fluctuation by putting a “buffer” between the magic and tech. A—a kind of pocket dimension where all fluctuations are free to disperse, one for every region.”

He found what he was looking for under the serial number.

“If I have to guess, your student must be intuitively good at dimensional magic,” he said. “In his desperate urge to escape, he went through the only open door he had: the tablet.” A pause. “Yeah, we should probably try and fix that weak point in the next version. I should call Lucius."

“Wait,” the Auror put up a hand. “Pocket dimensions? Buffers? What in Merlin’s beard are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the way muggle tech and wizarding magic integrate,” Dick frowned. “Wayne Tech’s been on the market for close to five years; you’re telling me none of you know the theory behind it?”

“Things are… different here in Britain,” Professor Potter pulled him aside. “The muggle and wizarding communities are still pretty segregated. I’m afraid very few wizards even allow their children to purchase this Wayne Tech you Americans love so much.”

“How do you expect to compete with the rest of the world, then?”

“Funny,” Potter threw him a grin. “That’s what Zatanna said right before she got poor old Greingout fired. The bastard was teaching students that muggles were the devil, apparently, rather then actually doing his job as a Muggle Studies professor."

“Nineteenth century,” Dick muttered under his breath, and then turned to the Auror. “So, do you guys have a zeta platform around here?”

“Zeta platform?” the Auror said dumbly.

“There’s one at the ministry,” Albus said, and Dick wondered how the hell anyone around here got anything _done_.

 

\--

 

It took less an hour to find Carmine once Dick recited the exact coordinates of the European WT Pocket Dimension and threw the zeta dust at the wall. It was a very small, very organized dimension, and Carmine was sitting cross-legged right in the middle of it.

“Professor Potter!” the boy surged onto his feet and ran towards the man. Professor Potter swept him up into his arms in clear relief. “I don’t—I was so angry—how did you find me? Where am I?”

“Welcome to the digital world,” Dick said, waving a hand around. “Please don’t sue Wayne Tech over this.”

“Digital—I’m _in my tablet_?” Carmine’s eyes grew big and wide.

“Technically no,” Dick said. “For all intents and purposes? Yes.”

“Let’s take you back to the castle,” Albus Potter ushered the student back towards the zeta platform. “We’ll talk about it there.”

“Good idea, we don’t want to be hit by any stray magic coming in. Oh look, there’s some now,” Dick ducked when a red lightning bolt shot past him out of nowhere.

“Those hurt,” Carmine complained, not loosening his grip on Professor Potter’s sleeve. “Not too bad, but it’s like getting static shocked over and over.”

“Is this another muggle thing I’m supposed to know?” the Auror asked Dick, and Dick just threw the zeta dust at the platform in response.

At Hogwarts, Dick found himself under intense scrutiny for doing what any newbie JLA member could’ve done in their sleep. Seriously, Watchtower tech was leagues more complicated than a bit of Wayne Tech buffer dimensioning.

“It’s just kind of sad that some shmuck from America solved our issue in like, ten seconds,” Professor Potter was telling some tiny, wizened thing like Dick wasn’t sitting right next to him. “I mean, really! Zee wasn’t joking when she said we’re behind the times.”

“Something I’m more than aware of, Albus,” a new voice said. Dick looked up from where he’d been eating grudgingly acceptable dessert a house elf had spirited up for him. An elderly wizard in a soft green tophat strolled down the hall.

“Neville,” Professor Potter sat up. “Please tell me the Aurors aren’t filing a report.”

“The Aurors aren’t filing a report,” this ‘Neville’ said dryly. “Too embarrassed, I suppose.”

“ _I’m_ embarrassed.”

“The Wizarding Parental Board has tried to keep us from appointing a new Muggle Studies teacher, but clearly that cannot continue,” the elderly wizard said. Finally, he seemed to notice Dick. “Ah, and this is the young man who saved the day?”

“Hello,” Dick said. “Yes, uh. Dick Grayson. I’m Zatanna’s friend.”

“Our little Zatanna’s always had good taste,” the elderly wizard said approvingly. He nodded at Dick in greeting. “Neville Longbottom, Headmaster of the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Thank you, Mister Grayson, for helping us retrieve our wayward student. And for opening our eyes to what more our school needs to offer,” and he glanced over at Professor Potter. “There are only going to be more muggleborn students bringing Wayne Tech into the castle. We need to understand it sooner rather than later.”

Dick shivered. The castle was probing his magic again, and while he clearly passed the Not Going to Attack test, it still seemed suspicious of him. It poked him especially hard on the side, and Dick lashed out in annoyance.

The staircase closest to the hall suddenly jerked as if stung.

“What the…” Albus Potter frowned at the staircase.

Headmaster Longbottom, on the other hand, considered Dick closely.

“I believe it’s time for you to return home, Mister Grayson,” he said, and Dick couldn’t help but feel chastised. The elderly wizard laughed. “Oh, don’t worry about the castle’s feelings. It’s a moody thing, and believe it or not it seems to like you. Now Albus, if you will…”

“Yeah, of course,” Albus held out a hand. “I can take you Hogsmeade and then you can apparate home from there…?”

“Actually, if you can apparate me back home too, that’ll be great,” Dick said.

The professor raised a brow.

Dick didn’t care. Let him think he was lazy; it was better than admitting that he couldn’t apparate. Not yet.

 

\--

 

“So did anything interesting happen while I was away?” Zatanna burst into the apartment like a model stepping foot on the catwalk.

Dick looked up from where he’d been brushing Nightwing at the kitchen table.

“Nope,” he said. “Nothing at all, Professor Zatara.”

Zatanna froze for a brief second and then narrowed her eyes at him. She put down her expandable luggage. “I see you’ve been looking me up, _Robin_.”

“Blame Albus Potter not me,” Dick said, scratching Nightwing behind its ear tufts. The owl trilled. “He was looking for you.”

“Me?”

“Something at Hogwarts,” Dick said. “I took care it.”

Zatanna stared at him for a long, hard moment and then went to put her hat away.

Dick waited until she was done unloading before standing up.

“Zatanna,” he said. “If you’re a professor on leave, then what have you been doing in the afternoon? If it’s… if it’s something I can help with, I’m here.”

Zatanna chuckled and threw him a wry smile. “Thanks Rob, but you’re still too untrained. Worry about your lessons first and then one day…” she shook out her hair. “One day I might let you come with me.”

 

\--

 

Dick spent the next month mastering all sorts of magic within his own set of rules: the “blood magic” Zatanna spoke of, until he could accomplish jaw-dropping feats that would’ve sent Alfred into a tizzy. And then Zatanna sat him down and forced him to learn every spell all over again, this time with a wand and the right words and it was _fucking hell_.

“Sorry, but out there you’ll be expected to use classic magic,” she said unrepentantly while Dick lay panting on the grass. She circled the meadow and righted the stumps he’d so horribly eviscerated by accident. “The reason I had you perfect your blood magic first is so you know what it feels like when things go _right_. And this is not right. So get up.” Dick continued to lie there. Zatanna rolled her eyes. “Teg pu!”

Dick yelped when backwards magic tugged him onto his feet. Nightwing flew about the clearing and landed on Zatanna’s shoulder.

Traitor.

Zatanna still went on her afternoon trips, and Dick, out of sheer boredom, began wandering muggle London in his free time. It should’ve felt awkward after essentially living like a hermit the last few months, but Dick was born and raised a performer. Talking to strangers was old hat.

He drank coffee and talked to old ladies in cafes. He played chess with kids in the park. He watched parents and children stroll about the bustling city and wondered where exactly his friends and family were right now.

Wally had sent him a postcard via Zatanna, which meant the JLA did have some idea where he was holed up. Dick hadn’t replied. He just tacked the earnest note—asking Dick to call back, to not cut off contact, that if Bruce had done anything bad he was going to _tear him apart_ —onto the wall of Zatanna’s guest room and pretended his heart didn’t hurt.

He’d wander the streets and eat Indian street food and dance alongside the public aerobics class near the fountain all week until Saturday.

On Saturday, he made his weekly call to Alfred.

One week, Jason picked up the phone instead.

“Jay here, what’s up,” the boy said, startling Dick so completely he almost upturned his teacup. He caught it in time but couldn’t hide the noise. Jason’s voice went suspicious. “…hello?”

“Hey,” Dick said, at a loss for words.

“You know how he is,” Alfred had said the first time he broke the news, which was probably the only excuse Bruce had for his crazy behavior. “But Master Jason’s a good boy. A bit… rough around the edges, but he did grow up in crime alley.”

The whole thing was obviously Bruce’s fault, not Jason’s, but it was so goddamn hard to be an adult sometimes.

He cleared his throat: “Uh. It’s Dick. Is Alfred there?”

“Dick? Dick Grayson?” Jason’s tone went from suspicious to excited. “Wow! You’re _Robin!_ ”

“Excuse you,” and falling back to teasing banter seemed to be his default for any awkward situation. “I heard _you’re_ Robin these days.”

“Well duh. But you were Robin too!” Jason’s voice suddenly dropped in volume. “Uh oh. B’s gonna be so mad we talked, though. I’m not supposed to ask after you.”

“Well Bruce can shove his rules up his ass,” Dick said. Jason made a horrified, sputtering noise from the other end. “Hero worship can only go so far, kid. Now is Alfred there?”

He clearly wanted to say more, but Jason seemed to know when to push his luck and when he shouldn’t. The sound of pitter-pattering, and then Jason’s voice calling out, _Alfred! It’s DICK GRAYSON!_

“Master Jason has been bored out of his mind while Master Bruce’s gone on a mission,” the butler picked up the receiver and explained at once. “He’s not supposed to answer the phone.”

“B’s continuing the tradition of bringing home and ditching little birds, I see.”

“Master Dick,” Alfred sounded both sympathetic and chiding at once.

“Well I’m just calling to tell you I’m still alive,” Dick told him. “No need to send the Batplane overseas, there’s not enough room in the backyard for a motorcycle, much less a plane. And tell B I know he’s anonymously dumping money into my bank account, and that giving me money doesn’t help me establish independence.”

“You’re living off your trust fund.”

“For now!” Dick insisted, even though he felt little to no guilt using the trust fund Bruce had set aside for him. If he needed to use Bruce’s money to go have some self-appointed therapy for Bruce-related meltdowns, well. He _better_ be using Bruce’s money.

His bank account, on the other hand, was more of a self-run enterprise from money earned on investments, which was why it galled him to see Bruce trying to sneak money in there too.

“Very well, Master Dick. I will inform Master Bruce of your monthly, independent adult assertion, and Master Bruce will then implement his monthly, momentary deafness. I do love playing phone between the two of you.”

Dick winced. “You can just give the phone to B if he’s home when I call. But, uh. Yeah. Thanks, Alfred. I know this hasn’t been… easy for you.”

Alfred just sighed over the phone. “I do admit it’s been painful seeing you two at odds, but I have long come to accept it. You’re an adult, and no matter how he grumbles Bruce has begun making peace with that. My greatest concern is you, Master Dick. Have you thought about what you will do once your training with Zatanna is complete?”

“Aw, Al,” Dick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. He paused for a loaded moment, torn between feeding the butler some of his typical bullshit or confessing that he had no idea at all.

He just knew he couldn’t go _home._

He finally skirted the question entirely: “Look, I gotta go, but engage in B’s and my monthly spat at your own discretion. And tell the little bird to ease up on the hero-worship.”

“You do not have a monopoly on hero-worship,” Alfred scolded him and then hung up the phone.

Dick made a face at the receiver.

“On a scale of one to ten, how well did you think that went?” he asked Nightwing, who was perched on the chair beside him. The owl glanced at him, blinked, and then turned back to his preening.

“Yeah,” Dick sighed. “I thought so too.”

 

\--

 

By the time summer came around, Dick’s control had improved enough for him to sit in Zatanna’s little terrarium room and not cause all the glass bowls to explode. She still hadn’t forgiven his first victim—a tiny terrarium her father had given her, apparently—and so to sweeten the deal, Dick had gotten a new one commissioned.

Zee nodded approvingly at the replacement terrarium in the corner. “You know, I think we can try Diagon Alley next week. You’re ready.”

Dick perked up.

Diagon Alley was the magical equivalent of gasoline just ready for Dick to set it ablaze. It was far more complicated than even Hogwarts; because unlike the singular, all-consuming presence of the Castle, there were at least a hundred different magical bubbles flitting about at any given moment. It was disorienting.

Some large part of him ached for a crutch to fall back on just in case, but Bruce wasn’t here right now. And the whole point of coming to this wet little island was to learn how to operate on his own. He walked right into that magical space with his head held high, and was inordinately pleased when his control held.

“You know,” Zatanna said as they made their last stop at the apothecary. She glanced around at the students going back-to-school shopping around them. “School term’s going to start soon.”

“You going back to work?” he said, crouching down to stare at a jar of eyeballs. The eyeballs whirled and stared right back at him, and he made a face. “Is this your way of kicking me out?”

“Not really,” Zatanna hedged, and then abruptly fell silent.

“Zee?” Dick looked up. He squeezed past a few goblins and a particularly awkward centaur trying not to trample some barrels beneath her hooves, and found Zatanna staring up at something hanging on the wall.

It was a strange golden ankh as big as his palm.

“Sir,” Zatanna called out to the clerk, who rolled his eyes and wandered over. “How much does that cost?”

“It’s not for sale, lady,” the clerk said.

“You don’t understand,” and now Zee’s voice had a tinge of desperation to it. “I need that ankh. I’ll pay anything.”

"Not for sale."

" _Please._ "

“Well you want it so bad, how ‘bout you give me a thousand galleons for it?” the clerk sneered, clearly joking. Zatanna paled, because she was just a fucking schoolteacher who made enough to be comfortable. Like anyone had that kind of money just lying around.

Oh wait.

“Here,” Dick handed over a black credit card before Zatanna could say anything. She whirled and stared at him with large green eyes. “You guys take card, don’t you?”

The clerk stared at the card. He stared at Dick. He turned back to the cashier and entered a few numbers before passing the card through the credit spell below the counter. Then, when the card was approved, he threw it back to Dick and went to fetch the ladder.

“Dick, you didn’t have to,” Zatanna hissed as he tucked the credit card back into his pocket. “That’s way too much money!”

“I know we don’t talk about our pasts a lot, but trust me—a thousand galleons is nothing,” Dick said. The clerk unhooked the ankh and presented it to Zatanna, who took it with trembling hands.

“Quite a beau you have,” the clerk said, and it was testament to how awed Zatanna was to have this strange little artifact that she didn’t even kick him for his insolence. Dick led her out of the shop by the arm. When it became clear that she was still entranced by whatever that was, he stuffed the rest of their purchases in the expandable backpack he’d brought and apparated them both out of the alley.

At home, Zatanna placed the ankh in the middle of a hastily drawn rune circle and took off her top hat. Rather than send it flying into the closet as usual, she turned it over and reached inside—and pulled out an assortment of strange, seemingly unrelated items. A white glove. A comb. A tattered journal that had clearly seen better days. And a worn crup doll missing an eye.

“When I was fourteen,” Zatanna said, cross-legged before the circle. “I was assisting my father in a spell to… to find Camelot.” She glanced at him. “We knew the JLA were handling most of that, but you have to understand that the Dark had begun his attacks here first. We didn’t have the time to work things out with the muggles.”

Dick didn’t say anything. The story sounded vaguely familiar, though if it were true…

“We tried summoning the portal to wherever Merlin had hid the kingdom… and instead, we summoned up a god,” Zatanna took a deep breath. “It was so _Light_. Pure. And its presence drew hordes of dark monsters upon us. My father was a powerful wizard, but not powerful enough. In the end, I allowed the god to use my body to banish the dark creatures away.”

Dick knew this story. He just hadn’t realized it was about _Zatanna_ and her _father._

“After defeating the dark creatures, the god decided the world needed its power to defend it. It refused to release my body. In the end, I escaped under one condition.”

“That your father would take his place,” Dick finished. Zatanna looked down at the floor. “The Light Entity, Nabu, who has since been an ally of the Justice League. I didn't realize... I'm sorry. Batman told me about your father's sacrifice. So you’ve been working all this time…”

“…to help set him free,” Zatanna said.

Dick had only known Nabu peripherally; even for a Justice League member he was at best enigmatic, at worst derisive. He was Light magic personified and their greatest asset against the Dark, but not nearly as useful when it came to bridging the gap between wizards and muggles.

“There are more important things at stake,” he’d once boomed at Bruce. Bruce, to his credit, didn’t back down. “We waste time dealing with such trivial matters.”

“Unifying the muggle and magical world isn’t _trivial_ ,” Bruce had shot back. “It’s what’s important. The battle of Light and Dark is crucial on an existential level, but for the everyday man it’s these _trivial_ things that matter most.”

Nabu, unimpressed, had just phased through the Watchtower wall. One of his more useful and annoying abilities: the guy didn’t need a zeta platform to jump between dimensions. It made him notoriously hard to find if he didn’t want to be found.

“Nabu does good work,” he finally said. “If your father is released as a vessel, who will take his place?”

Zatanna bit her lip.

Dick considered her seriously. For all her ruthlessness as a teacher, she was no more than a young adult trying to take up her father’s mantle. Zee was strong and cunning and quick, but she was _young_.

He put his hand on her shoulder and she leaned into him.

“So what’s the ankh do?” he said softly, gesturing at the artifact.

Zatanna took a watery breath. “The ankh’s one of two artifacts known to summon Nabu. He’s an interdimensional being; traditional magic doesn’t work nearly as well. With this, I can finally call him here.”

“And the objects?”

“My father’s belongings,” she said. “And some that he gifted me. I can use these to call out to my father within the entity, and... and it'll hopefully give him enough power to throw Nabu off.”

Dick looked down at the rune circle.

“You think I’m crazy,” Zatanna laughed.

“No…”

“The Hogwarts professors thought I was crazy too,” she shook her head. “Albus started hiding the Runes books away from me, so much so I needed to take my search out of the school.”

“Nabu is dangerous, Zatanna,” Dick said. “He could kill you.”

“That doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“You can’t stop me, Dick,” and there was something horrifyingly familiar in the look in her eye. It was determination to the point of self-harm; it was Bruce in the worst of his questing years, when Dick just wanted the man to come home and _let it go_.

Dick hated that look, mostly because he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“You want your father back,” he said, and Zatanna’s expression broke.

“More than anything,” she whispered. She didn’t throw him off when he hugged her slight form against him; when he stared forward at where Nightwing perched as still as a statue on a kitchen chair. The owl finally hooted and spread its wings in agreement, and Dick sighed.

“I meant what I said, Zee. I’m here and I’ll help. But if you’re dealing with Nabu, the two of us aren’t enough to hold a rune circle powerful enough.”

Zatanna smiled. “Don’t worry, Dick. I’ve got that part covered. What do you think I’ve been doing courting the JLA all these months?”

“Oh, I’m not going to like this, am I?” he groaned, and Zee’s devious smile was all he needed to know.

 

\--

 

He didn’t like it.

“ _Dick Grayson!_ ” was all he heard before a yellow blur barreled right into him and sent him sprawling onto the ground. “You _asshole_!”

“Wall,” he coughed, but the speedster overrode him.

“Not a single call or letter or text message. Had to pry the info from baby Robin of all people, and even _he_ wasn’t sure which European country you were in. Bunking down with Zatanna of all people, in possibly the worst city apart from Gotham—”

“Wally!” a slender hand yanked the man back. Dick got to his feet and stared at the newcomer. She was tall and curvy and dressed in a bat-themed suit; had red hair and bright blue eyes; and her voice was achingly _familiar_. “You said you’d behave.”

“Yeah, but Batgirl—”

“You know how Batman is,” the girl rolled her eyes. “He’s always been difficult, and if _I_ fought with him I’d probably leave the continent too.”

And then it clicked.

“ _Barbara_?” he yelped, and Batgirl threw him a scathing glare. “What are you—weren’t you at Salem Academy?”

“I graduated years ago, Dick,” Barbara Gordon, daughter of Head Auror Gordon, put her hands on her hips. “Went to Auror school for a bit before coming back home, and then saw Robin nearly fall and break his neck on some skyscraper before I saved him.”

“Jay fell?”

“The kid’s thirteen. Cut him a break.”

 _I was_ easily _scaling skyscrapers at thirteen,_ Dick wanted to mutter, but he was still gawking at Barbara Gordon in a skintight outfit and go-go boots. Jesus. They only really met on the rare occasions she came home at the same time as some Wayne Gala, and her father dragged her along in the name of “social interaction.” They might have been better friends if Dick was a bit older and Babs wasn’t, you know. In Salem for most of the year.

“Four people,” Wally huffed, ignoring the dramatic reveal happening around him. “Didn’t you say we needed five, Zatanna?”

“We’ve got five,” Barbara said with a smile. Wally turned in a circle and gave her a questioning look. Barbara took off the bag she was carrying and popped it open. “Look, it’s a bitch sneaking anything past Batman, so we had to take less… conventional methods of transportation.”

“You mean _I_ did,” a familiar voice whined from inside the bag. Dick’s heart stopped when he saw a green glove poking out from the bag’s side—and a thirteen-year-old toppled headfirst out and onto the ground. “You were totally swinging the bag around on purpose, Babs!”

“Aw, too rough for the little Robin?” Barbara cooed.

Jason Todd leapt to his feet at once. “Nothing’s too rough for me!”

“That’s what she said,” Wally whispered, and Dick jabbed him with an elbow. “Ow! Dick!”

Jason whirled at the sound of his name, and his eyes went big and blue. Dick stared right back. The boy was taller than he’d been at that age, tall enough that the Robin costume barely provided any decency around his groin. His hair was curlier and parted in the middle, and gave off a strange reddish shine in the low light. Freckles spattered across his face.

“Wow,” Jason said. He suddenly looked shy and not-so-subtly stepped behind Barbara. “You di'n’t say he was _pretty_.”

“Everyone knows Dick’s pretty,” Barbara rolled her eyes. “And stop hiding, Jay, you’re what. Twelve?”

“Thirteen!”

“You’re thirteen, you’re a big boy. Go say hi properly.”

Jason puffed out his chest and strolled right up to Dick.

“Hi!” he said, sticking a hand out. “I’m Robin! Which… uh. You already know. I mean, I ain’t gonna give the costume back, so if you come home you’re gonna have to come up with a new name, okay?”

“Huh,” Dick said, so frozen he didn’t even take Jason’s hand. He looked over at Zatanna. “Don’t we need five _wizards_?”

Jason’s face went pink in embarrassment. Batgirl glared at him over the boy’s head and put an arm around his shoulder, and Dick felt like a complete douchebag.

“Five _people_ , Dick,” Zatanna intervened. “And Wally’s not a wizard either. Now come on, let’s get things ready.”

Dick approached Batgirl and Robin while Zatanna was measuring out the proper powder ingredients. Robin was clearly still hurt over Dick’s dismissal and refused to turn around.

“Jay, I’m not going to take Robin away from you,” Dick sighed, too used to silent treatment drama to be too deterred. “When… if I come back home, I’ll be operating under a new name.”

Jason still didn’t say anything.

Dick threw Barbara a desperate look, but the woman gave him a _You Deserve It_  glare which meant he was on his own.

“Jay…”

“I’m just as good as you, okay?” Jason snapped, still not looking up, and Dick’s heart broke just a little.

And then Nightwing, who’d been hopping between mobiles, let out a shrill hoot and landed right onto Jason’s head. The boy flailed in surprise, and flailed even more when Nightwing wrapped its wings around his face.

“Nightwing!” Dick said, alarmed. He pulled the owl off of him and was surprised to find Jay smiling brightly underneath.

“Owl!” the boy said, toothy smile as bright as if he’d never been upset. He bounced excitedly. “Is he yours? Why is he called Nightwing? Can I pet him?”

“He’s cuddly,” Dick said, handing the owl over. Even he had to admit Jason looked adorable with his arms wrapped around the fluffy owl, and the boy seemed to forget about his sulking as long as he hugged it.

Barbara sidled up next to him and said in a low tone, “Look, Jay already gets enough grief from Bruce ‘cause he’s not you. He doesn’t need to deal with that here, too.”

“Bruce gives him grief?” Dick shot back in an equally low tone. “He’s the one that replaced me, what does he have to grieve about?”

“Well, think about it this way,” Barbara said. “He’s a Robin dealing with Bruce being an emotionally constipated asshole. You’re perhaps the only person who knows exactly what he’s going through. So stop being a jerk.”

Dick scowled but didn’t argue back. She was right as always, because Barbara Gordon had a photographic memory and was smart enough she even trounced Bruce once. Bruce had sulked in the cave for _hours_. With a sigh, he beckoned Jason over. The boy clutched Nightwing closer to himself and approached him suspiciously.

With good reason. The moment he was in range, Dick grabbed him around the shoulders and ruffled his hair.

“No!” the boy wailed and let Nightwing go in favor of fending off Dick’s grabby hands. “Nooo stop!”

“What’s that? Do you hear a Robin chirping, Babs?”

“I dunno,” Barbara drawled. “It’s kind of quiet for a Robin, isn’t it? Maybe it’s just a chick.”

“I’m not a _chick_ ,” Jason whined, tearing himself away and trying to act tough. “I’m Robin, the muggle wonder!”

“Well alright, Robin the muggle wonder,” Zatanna called out from the spell room. “If you bats want to join the fun, it’s time to get started.”

Nightwing landed back on Jason’s shoulder. The boy beamed at him and skipped into the spell room, and Dick took a deep breath and tried to calm his heart. Then, he followed.

 

\--

 

Nabu was glorious and terrifying and so bright Dick's eyes watered, and something deep inside him ached to harmonize with that burning frequency. 

“Your quest is in vain, child,” Nabu declared, rising from the floating ankh Zatara had enchanted before the ritual. “And you have been warned of what would happen if you interfered again. Giovanni Zatara’s life was one freely given, and I tire of your efforts to undermine his choice.”

“Ekat eseht stcafitra fo evol dna lous,” Zatanna kept reciting, staring fearlessly up at a god of Light. “Dna gnirb kcab eht eurt renwo fo siht ydob!”

Dick jolted when the glove placed in his lap sent a bolt of magic right through his core. It joined the ever-growing loop of power running through their combined hands, like some kind of golden hula-hoop spinning faster and faster. Dick startled when he felt Jason’s smaller hand twitch in his grip. The spinning grew faster. Jason let out a low moan of pain. His hand jerked again, and Dick held on tighter. They couldn’t break the ring.

““Ekat eseht stcafitra fo evol dna lous,” Zatanna repeated. The glow grew brighter and rose above them, surrounding Nabu’s seething form. “Dna gnirb kcab eht eurt renwo fo siht ydob!”

Nabu snarled as the circle ran up his golden boots and cape and up towards his face. Once there, it sank into the brilliant light of his helmet... and a human face slowly emerged from liquid gold.

“Dad,” Zatanna gasped shakily, eyes wet. She clearly wanted to reach out to him, but they couldn’t break the circle. “Dad!" 

“Zatanna,” the man slowly opened his eyes as if waking from a deep sleep, and blinked disbelievingly at the scene below him. “What have you done?”

“Zee, we can’t hold this much longer,” Barbara said tightly, casting her own worried glance at Jason.

“We’ve separated you and Nabu for just a moment. If you fight, you can cast him out of your body,” Zatanna said. “Dad, we don’t have time!”

Giovanni Zatara had the same green eyes as Zatanna; the same clever tilt of his eyebrows. He looked down at his only daughter and said, in a grave tone, “No.”

Zatanna's face went slack with shock. “What?”

“No, Zatanna,” Giovanni’s face began to slowly sink back into the golden helmet. “The Dark is readying its armies, and the Light needs Nabu to fight. Bringing a god into this realm requires sacrifice... and if the sacrifice is me, than so be it."

“You did not!” Zatanna yelled at him. “ _I_ was the one—I did it, you only got trapped because of me! How can I fix this if you won’t let me help?”

“I love you, Zatanna,” her father said, face almost completely obscured. “And I will always take your place, every time.”

“No,” Zatanna whispered—and then Jason let out a pained cry. Dick's heart stopped. The boy spasmed and tore his hands away from Dick and Barbara. Electric-like magic crackled along his fingertips, too much magic for a conduit not built to hold even an iota of magical power, and the ring broke with an ear-piercing shatter. Dick immediately put his hand on Jason’s forehead and tried siphoning off as much rampant magic as he could, to no avail. This had always been Bruce’s specialty, not his.

Free from his confines and brilliant in his rage, Nabu floated before a frozen Zatanna. He regarded her with cool, inhuman eyes.

“Your father has chosen to remain,” he declared. “Who are you to disrespect his wishes?”

Zatanna just curled up into a ball and pressed her forehead to the floor.

Satisfied, the Light entity turned to phase out of the apartment—and then stopped.

Dick had half a second to realize what he was going to do, and was barely able to shield Jason in time. The metal-rose wall he’d materialized was half crushed by the magical ankhs Nabu had thrown at the boy. Dick's heart beat faster. They _crushed_ his roses.

"What the hell?" Wally yelled at him from behind.

“This is the one who will betray Camelot,” Nabu declared before summoning more spinning ankhs in his palms. He hovered over Jason like an avenging angel. “This is the one who will doom us once more. I am ridding the world of him before the Dark can take him. Stand aside.”

“W-what?” Jason said blearily. His face was covered in pale sweat, and jealousy-issues aside he was still _Robin._  Dick cast the shield away and created another one.

“He’s just a kid, Nabu,” he called out. “He’s not destined to do anything!”

“You are wrong. As usual, your love for this world blinds you. Move aside, little brother.”

“I’d never,” Jason whispered hoarsely. “He thinks—I’d never betray Bruce. He saved me.”

“This isn't the same story we lived through before,” Dick told the god of Light. “Things have already changed, and I won’t just stand by and let you slaughter someone for no reason!"

“Fate cannot be altered,” Nabu boomed. “Fate conquers all in the past, the present and the future. Your attempt to change it is futile.”

He threw another ankh, and another, and Dick gritted his teeth under the assault. Excalibur could cut through all magic, but next to Nabu he was just a tiny speck of stardust in the flaming sun of the Light. His last effort to shield the boy caught all but one ankh, which continued its trajectory towards Jason’s eye—

—and was thrown off-course by Nightwing, who swooped down and knocked it out of the way with its talons alone.

Nabu froze, ankhs still in his palms, and stared at the bird.

“You,” he said, almost… bewildered. He turned to Dick. “You, what have you done?”

“Stopped you from murder,” Dick said, and then locked eyes with Wally across the room. “Now!”

It was too fast for the human eye to see, but Wally snatched up the golden ankh in the middle of the broken circle—and brought it down onto Nabu’s head. The Light god screamed in surprise as he was sucked into the ankh, where it would undoubtedly spit him out far away. Physically, magically, dimensionally.

For now, he was gone.

“Jason,” Barbara hauled the boy up in her arms and felt his forehead. “He’s still sick.”

“Magic overload,” Dick said. “You have to get him home as quickly as possible. B’s the only one I know who could fix this. You’ll have to apparate to the Ministry and then zeta to Gotham.”

“How can…?”

“ _Go,_ ” Dick urged, pushing her unceremoniously out the door. Jason stirred in her arms and opened a bleary blue eye.

“Why… why did he want to kill me,” he slurred, looking heartbroken. The god of Light and goodness himself had tried to assassinate him, a kid was allowed a moment or two of despair. “Am I… bad?”

“No, Jay,” Dick smoothed back his hair. Sick and weary and in Barbara’s arms, the boy reminded him eerily of himself. How scared he’d been. How useless he’d felt. “You’re not bad, Jay. You’re who you make yourself out to be.”

Jason threw him a small, toothy smile. “And I’m _Robin_.”

“Yeah, you are,” Dick said, and nodded at Babs.

“Sure you’re not going to come home with us?” Barbara asked, and Dick shook his head and stepped back. 

“Take care of him,” he said. Whether he was referring to Bruce or Jason or both, it didn’t matter. Babs just nodded and stepped onto the apartment landing.

With a crack, she and Jason were gone.

 

\--

 

(Zatanna didn’t say anything, not even when Wally helped Dick haul most of the spellcasting equipment back into storage and swept up the used powder. Wally had furiously written in big blocky letters his phone number, Donna’s phone number, and a huge “ _CALL US YOU JERK”_ next to the wall he’d pinned his postcard on. Dick had smiled softly and drew Wally into a tight hug. The speedster squeezed him just as tightly back before saluting and speeding away towards the Ministry.

The sun had set by the time Dick was done putting everything away. Finally, he went back to the spell room. Zatanna was right where he’d left her, looking down at the assortment of her dad’s possessions with dried tear-tracks visible on her cheeks.

“You tried,” he said, and Zatanna slowly turned and gave him a somewhat confused, mostly devastated stare.

“He’s gone,” she said hoarsely. “He’s… he’s really gone, isn’t he?”

He’s been gone for years, Dick wanted to say, but he had tact. Instead he offered a shoulder for her to slump onto, and sat with a heavy heart until she cried herself to an unhappy sleep.

“It’ll get better, Zee,” he whispered once he put her to bed. She looked small and sad under her covers, but he knew exactly how strong she was. And closure was a powerful, powerful thing. “I promise.”)

 

\--

 

“We call it MAWTS: Muggle and Wizard Technological Studies. As you’re aware, the muggle and wizard worlds are still having difficulty integrating in Great Britain,” Headmaster Neville Longobttom said, leaning forward. “I’m afraid a lot of our issues have to do with wizards being unwilling to reach out. A class that introduces our students—especially the pureblooded ones—to muggle technology is a vital step towards full integration. After the help you gave, it’s clear that you’re… uniquely qualified for the task. If you’re available the coming semester, we’d love to have you onboard.”

Dick blinked. He looked around this strange magical castle, so reminiscent of the photos he’d perused back when—back when Bruce had been helping him decide on secondary school, and they were looking at institutes nearby. Before everything had fallen apart.

Zatanna wasn’t in the room, but he felt her presence here like a knife to his heart. She wasn’t ready to return, not really, but she was doing it anyway. And Dick wasn’t ready to go home either.

“I’ll do it,” he said, and stood up to shake the Headmaster’s hand.

“Perfect,” his eyes twinkled. “Hogwarts will surely benefit from your tutelage… Professor Grayson.”

 

\--

 

“You don’t have to stay for me,” Zee said while they ate hot pork buns on their casual train ride back to London. Apparation would’ve been faster, but there was merit in taking the slow way around sometimes. “I don’t need a babysitter.”

“I’m not staying for you. I’m staying for me,” Dick said, and took another big bite out of his bun.

The rest of their ride home was done in silence. Not a suffocating or angry silence. A calmer, somber one. One that quietly looked towards the future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I SAID THERE'D BE A HOGWARTS AU COMPONENT TO THIS
> 
> This version of Zatanna was born and raised in Italy before immigrating to the U.K. with her father. She attended Hogwarts and lived in London after graduating. Her father and Alfred were relatively good friends. Alfred was a Hufflepuff btw.
> 
> More to come next chapter...
> 
> Zatanna's backwards speak (in order of appearance):
> 
> "Shield the space around us from Dick's magic!"  
> "Put it away."  
> "Get up!"  
> "Take these artifacts of love and soul, and bring back the true owner of this body!"


	4. Part Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He even missed sex, which might have been strange given that he could count the number of times he’d gotten laid on one hand. It was probably more accurate to say he missed Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot plot sex plot ugggh plot hate you
> 
> I'm American and so none of this is Brit-picked/from a true British perspective. Please let me know if I'm bungling anything and I'll fix the British parts of this asap ;u;

The start of the school year was always the worst.

“Well _I_ don’t see the point of this _Tee-Vee_ ,” a smug little Ravenclaw called out while Dick pulled out the latest Wayne Enterprises WF Television set from the expandable-trunk he kept under the desk. “Why watch some droll muggle nonsense when a book would suffice?”

“Because a television is a visual book,” Dick said flatly. “And because it’s more fun for people.”

“ _Fun_ ,” the Ravenclaw sneered, like an eleven-year-old had any idea how much “fun” an adult was allowed.

“How were the brats?” Zatanna waved at him cheerfully from the teacher’s table during lunch. Dick used a hand to mimic setting off a gun to his temple.

“Why do I keep feeling the new students are getting _more_ bigoted every year?” he muttered, taking a seat beside her.

“Good ol’ British Wizards,” Zatanna snorted into her pumpkin juice. “Segregation’s still rampant, as is hate-crimes.”

“Clearly,” Dick scratched at a concealed bruise on his wrist. His last patrol in Hogsmeade’s ugly sister Bludhaven had been infuriatingly horrible. Thank god for disillusionment charms and beauty balms; and, if absolutely necessary, good old muggle makeup too.

Zatnna sighed, “And it doesn’t help that the muggles still haven’t gotten over that wizard-on-muggle war all those decades ago.”

“You mean Hitlermort?” Dick said. Zatanna swatted him. “Ow!”

“Be sensitive,” she scolded, “You know Headmaster Longbottom’s a war hero.”

Dick put his hands up in apology. To be honest he couldn’t imagine the elderly, warm-spirited Headmaster Longbottom as anything but an elderly, warm-spirited Headmaster. He just _was_.

“What are we talking about now?” Potter suddenly plopped himself at Dick’s other side, and Dick jumped. _Christ_ , did Albus move fast. “Oi Grayson, how many times did you lose your temper today?”

Dick rolled his eyes. “I don’t lose my temper. I calmly correct common misconceptions regarding wizard-muggle relations and wizard-friendly technology.”

“You’re a boring old toff, that’s what,” Potter snorted. “Why don’t you give them a break.”

“Because I’m finally an _adult_ ,” Dick declared, and Potter burst out laughing.

“You’re not an _adult_ , Grayson!” he wheezed, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “What are you, four, five years older than the seventh-years? Wait until you’ve gotta mortgage to pay and kids to feed and all that nonsense.”

“Now _your_ age is showing,” Dick said. “Besides, I thought Scorpius took care of the kids?”

“’Cause I’m too busy wrangling wannabe aurors,” said every Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor _ever_. “Take it from me—being a professor at Hogwarts is all good and fun when you’re young, but not as much when you’ve got a family, you know? Spending three quarter of the years away, a floo call every day and maybe a visit on the weekends…”

“Then quit,” Zatanna said loudly from over Dick’s shoulder.

“But I love my job,” Potter whined, “and next year Aquila’s coming in as a first-year, and then I can see my princess every day…”

“Yes, when I was eleven I wanted my dad hovering around me too,” Zatanna said dryly. She even said _my dad_ with a straight face, and Dick couldn’t help but feel a small thrill of pride at that. “Oh wait…”

“You young people!” Albus shook his fist in the air. “You’ll never understand my pain!”

“Until we get mortgages and kids to feed,” Dick grinned, and Zatanna collapsed onto his shoulder, she was laughing so hard.

Life after lunch was simple. He taught several more classes; went to dinner; held detention with the more bigoted asshole students and forced them to watch reruns of My Little Pony; picked up a snack from the kitchens; and then went up to his quarters for a quick nap before patrol. Nightwing was the best and worst alarm clock ever, because the owl wouldn’t stop cawing and screeching until he slunk out of bed in search for his costume.

(Going back to vigilantism had been less of a conscious choice and more of a necessary one. Because Bludhaven was a _cesspool_ of Wizard-on-Muggle violence, and Dick. Dick couldn’t ignore that.

Not with his history in Gotham, his training with Bruce. Not with the tragedy of his own parents’ deaths.)

He’d take another nap after a piping hot shower post-patrol, and then he was up and about getting ready for breakfast. Of course he ate his real breakfast in his quarters, but he had to make an appearance at the Great Hall for propriety or something. Whatever.

And then the whole process started all over again.

It was perfect. It was _empty_. And Dick… Dick couldn’t help but feel a sense of dread, like his time here was coming to an end.

He missed the stupidest things, like American cuisine and Gothamite culture and the familiar smell of Bruce’s aftershave. He missed the JLA and his friends, and while he regularly texted Wally and even a seemingly better Roy and had even video-chatted with Donna a few times, it wasn’t the same. Garth was harder to reach, especially after he went on his years-long merfolk quest and fell off the map entirely. It was something all merfolk did, though, so Dick couldn’t hold it against him. But he missed them all anyway.

He even missed sex, which might have been strange given that he could count the number of times he’d gotten laid on one hand. It was probably more accurate to say he missed Bruce: the real, physical presence of him beside him and not some flat voice on the other end of the phone.

“Fuck,” he gasped, pressing his forehead to the shower wall and coming against the tile. God, he was pathetic. The young, handsome professor with an entire hoard of student admirers at his fingertips, and here he was with only his right hand and his memories to keep him company. One night stands hadn’t worked, and it wasn’t like Bruce had ever showed any interest in phone sex.

(At his lowest point, Dick had actually tried it once. Bruce had let him get off before continuing his assessment of some League of Shadows shipments through Britain, and Dick had never been more mortified in his life.)

Dick pulled on some boxers and fell onto the couch. He’d renovated his quarters after a muggle-style apartment with all of the classic amenities, no matter how much the house elves tugged their ears in distress.

He rolled onto his stomach and stared blankly at his cell phone on the coffee table.

“Bruce,” he whined, allowing himself a moment of self-pity. One would think years apart would allow Dick to move on, and it had… a bit. Except Dick had come to the same fucking conclusion he had as a teenager once he finished soul-searching. That he wanted to belong to Bruce— _did,_ in fact, according to his magic—and for once, he wanted Bruce to admit he wanted him back.

Zatanna was probably going to knock and ask if he wanted to watch the Ravenclaw vs. Slytherin Quidditch game later this afternoon. They’d made a game of eating Firewhiskey-dipped cookies every time their opposing team scored a goal, and Dick needed to get back at Zatanna for the last two times he’d gotten tipsy and almost elbowed Headmaster Longbottom in the face.

Really, the Slytherin Quidditch team needed to stop crashing into poles, it was embarrassing for everyone.

But that was later. This was now. If Dick wanted to sulk and roll around half-naked in his quarters, he could. He was an adult, after all, faced with adult choices… like whether or not it was finally time to go home.

 

\--

 

Dick dreamed.

There was darkness. And then there was Bruce.

“Bruce,” Dick called out, watching the man walk towards a figure cast in shadow. He reached out and tried yanking him back by the shoulder, and was shocked when Bruce refused. “Bruce, get back from there!”

“I know what I’m doing,” the man said, not even looking back. “Don’t interfere.”

The figure turned and looked at Dick like he was a bug under her shoe, cold and familiar and sending a chill up Dick’s spine. When she placed a possessive hand on Bruce’s shoulder, he lunged.

She knocked him aside with a flick of her finger and laughed at the way he sprawled at her feet.

“Oh Richard,” she said, reaching out with her other hand. “You poor, poor fool. You’re too far away to do any real damage to me.”

She cupped his cheek and he recoiled. “You’ll always be just a second too late.”

No. _No._ Panic ripped through him, because he was going to be damned if he was letting her choke him again—

The dream shifted, shattered, and broke.

Dick fell onto a bed and found himself covered by a warm, familiar presence.

“How many times do I need to say it?” Bruce growled above him, his large arms bracketing Dick’s head. He smelled like aftershave and metallic magic and darkness where there should be none. “You can’t get close to Talia. Not again. Let me handle this.”

“Fuck you,” Dick snapped, trying to shove the larger man off of him. Bruce was as immovable as a steel wall. “ _Fuck you_ , B, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m handling it.”

“Like _hell_ you are!”

The dream construct felt so real, down to the way his chest heaved with each breath and the slight stubble on his jaw. His hair was shorter, too, and he was wearing a shirt Dick didn’t recognize.

Dick missed him _so much._ He was going to have words with his subconscious later, but this was too good an opportunity to pass up.

He abandoned their argument and hungrily pressed their mouths together instead. He trailed his hands down from Bruce’s jaw to his open collar, and then down his torso and to his hips. His magic moved with his touch, and just—lit everything up from the inside.

He wanted to touch him everywhere, fill every empty crack within him with magic so bright it would’ve blinded a lesser man. It felt so _good_ to sink himself inside; he hadn’t realized how much he’d craved it.

Bruce kissed back eagerly and without pause, and god, Dick had forgotten how good of a kisser he was. He ran a hand through Dick’s hair in time with the talented movements of his tongue, until Dick was hard and panting and starting to squirm. Bruce broke off and nuzzled his neck.

“Bruce,” he gasped when Bruce tugged his legs around his waist and pressed their cocks together through their underwear. “Bruce, _Bruce_ —”

“Stop wriggling,” Bruce ran his teeth down to his collarbone. He swept his hands across the generous expanse of skin Dick had on display, possessive and affectionate all at once.

“But isn’t wriggling the point?”

“Frottage, Dick.”

“Hmm,” Dick sighed and tipped his head back. Dry humping might be ridiculously juvenile, but he liked the friction of Bruce’s cock on his own. It was easy, uncomplicated pleasure. “Be nicer to me, come on. That’s the point of dreams.”

“If I was nice,” Bruce kissed up his cheek. Dick turned his head and caught his next kiss with an open mouth, and there was a long moment spent just enjoying the way their tongues tangled together. At the way Bruce sighed into his mouth, like he couldn’t get enough of Dick _ever_ , and that was just—it was really fucking hot. Bruce let out a pleased groan when Dick rocked their hips together. He broke off to whisper, “If—I was nice, it wouldn’t be realistic. Like if I tried this…” He bit Dick hard on the cheek, hard enough Dick swore he drew blood.

He yelped and smacked Bruce’s side.

“…you’d probably hit me,” Bruce actually grinned. Bastard. He smushed his face to Dick’s and picked up the pace. Dick lived to see Bruce lose control, and nothing thrilled him more when it was _him_ that broke his resolve. “The point of dreams is to fulfill fantasies, and I know the real Dick would never just lie back and take it.”

“Can you stop talking,” Dick demanded, feeling laughter bubbling up in his chest. He’d never imagined saying that to _any_ Bruce, much less a dream one. Except he was getting really, really close—enough so that he began scrabbling at Bruce’s back, and he couldn’t think of anything else. “I need—ah, if you distract me—”

“It’s okay,” Bruce whispered against his skin, his voice a low rumble. “Just come.”

It was that voice that did him in. Assertive and turned on, and really, how often had Dick imagined-remembered that growl in his ear? Pleasure ricocheted through him, sent soft tingles down to his toes, and he couldn’t help the low groan escaping his throat. His entire body arched as he came, spilling through the front of his boxers and staining Bruce’s cotton shirt. He breathed heavily once he was finished, almost dazed. He hadn’t come so hard in a long time, not since… well. Not since his last goodbye.

Bruce grunted and came a moment later, and Dick drew him into a lazy, indulgent kiss as he rode it out. He liked this intimacy almost more than orgasm: that soft state Bruce allowed himself to fall into when sleepy, and a place Dick wanted to bury himself in forever. The older man gently rolled off of him, still close enough that Dick could snuggle up against him as he pressed kisses to his face.

It was baldly affectionate, even more so when Bruce stroked his cheek with a thumb.

“Dick,” Bruce whispered, expression pained and regretful. He nosed his temple with a sigh. Dick snuffled back. He smelled like sex and sweat and his stupid, unchanging aftershave; he smelled like _Bruce_ , and Dick didn’t want it to end. “God, Dick, I love you. Far too much than I should.” He tilted Dick’s head up and kissed his mouth. “I miss you so much.”

“Now I know this is a dream,” Dick laughed, half-awed to hear _any_ form of Bruce saying those things, and half-pained that the only time he’d ever hear it was when his mind decided to play tricks on him. God, would he kill for Bruce to be so… loving towards him in reality. It was pathetic, but Dick was only human. “My Bruce would never admit to any of those things.”

He nuzzled Bruce’s neck and wrapped an arm around his waist. It felt good and safe, like cuddling with the older man always did. “Is it weird to fall asleep in a dream?”

“Not at all,” Bruce’s voice assured him. Dick’s eyes fluttered closed and he hummed in time to the slight rise and fall of his chest as Bruce breathed. The man said, “Dick…”

The dream shattered a second time, and Dick was left alone. Or so he thought.

“Honestly, Richard,” a woman’s voice sighed from all around him. It was like a bucket of ice water had been thrown over his head. “So pathetic.”

Dick sat up, heart pounding. “Who are you?”

“Well, I could say I’m a figment of your imagination,” the voice said, “but that would be lying. You know who I am, Richard, and you must know I’m coming for you.”

“Morgana,” he whispered, and flinched when the darkness threw back her head and laughed. “Stay away from Bruce, do you hear me?”

“Oh darling,” Morgana sighed. “You don’t know anything, do you? _He_ came to _me_.”

Dick opened his mouth to argue even further—and then suddenly he was falling.

 

\--

 

He was falling quite literally, rolling right off the couch and onto the floor.

“Ow,” he groaned, clutching his bruised head. The loud knocking on his front door continued, unrepentant and sobering, because Dick was still in just his boxers and there was a come stain on his couch. God fucking dammit.

His cheeks warmed, because what was he, _twelve_? At least he hadn’t poked out his eye on the coffee table corner when he’d gone down.

“Jesus, Zee, I’m coming!” he shouted at the door. He got to his feet. “I need to find my clothes.”

“You’ve got five minutes, hot shot,” Zatanna called out through the wood. The knocking thankfully stopped. “’Cause the match is starting real soon and I’m _not_ letting you wriggle out of another cookie because we came in late.”

“I seriously doubt the Ravenclaws will score within the first five minutes,” Dick muttered. He rubbed his eyes and winced at the sudden pain radiating from his cheek. “Ow, what the hell…?”

His fingers met a strange indent in his skin, and Dick froze.

And then he was leaping over the couch and hurrying into the bathroom, because it couldn’t be. Except, after staring at his reflection in the mirror, Dick had to conclude that it was.

He ran a careful thumb across the angry red bite mark on his cheek.

This was a world of magic and legend and mystery, and Dick should know better than to dismiss the seemingly impossible. But this? This was impossible. Because if—if he and Bruce—his reflection flushed red all the way down to his chest.

He’d assumed Morgana had just been playing a trick on him. She was sadistic enough, and she’d always enjoyed tormenting him.

“ _Richard Grayson!_ ” Zatanna shouted, startling him out of his reverie. Dick winced. There wasn’t anything he could do about it now, and so went to his room and changed into clean, unsoiled clothes.

It was probably all a dream anyway; and if it wasn’t, then Bruce could take care of himself. He had Alfred and Jason and the rest of the JLA; he didn’t need Dick’s help dealing with Morgana.

Not anymore.

 

\--

 

(“Did you have someone over?” Zatanna narrowed her eyes at his cheek when he finally came out of his quarters. “’Cause I don’t think you could’ve done that to yourself.”

She reached out with her wand and he ducked away.

“Now I’m sure there was someone,” she arched a brow. She raised her wand again and said, when he flinched, “Oh, I’m not going to get rid of it. Ekam siht kram elbisibni! There you go, now no one can see it.”

Dick pressed his fingers again the bite and confirmed its continued presence. He had to trust Zatanna was telling the truth regarding the concealment charm.

“Though honestly, it’s kind of ballsy to mark you _on your face_ ,” she continued the topic mercilessly. “You going to tell me who it was?”

“No.”

“That handsome waiter down at the Three Broomsticks? That Care of Magical Creatures guest speaker? Oh!” Zatanna twirled before him. “Don’t tell me it’s a student!”

“Zee!” Dick hissed, embarrassed. Thankfully, they arrived at the Quidditch pitch. Zatanna beamed and pulled her blue and bronze top hat out of her bag. They walked up to the professors’ stands and saw Albus and his husband cheerfully waving at them.

“Slytherins for the win!” Professor Potter yelled, a green and silver top hat firmly placed on his head. Even Scorpius waved a little green flag, and they collectively booed at Zatanna’s blue getup.

“Up yours, Potters!” she shouted back, and then broke out the Firewhiskey and biscuits. Dick watched the Quidditch teams ready themselves for their match, and resisted the overwhelming urge to run his fingers along the bite once last time.)

 

\--

 

Dick wouldn’t think of Morgana again until November—until the Dark made their first strike in years, and no one as prepared.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Dick hissed, dressed in his vigilante outfit and narrowly weaving his way through a muggle crowd being herded towards the cliff face. Two wizards cloaked in darkness prodded the muggles like cattle, and if that wasn’t demeaning enough there were wizards standing out on the streets.

They just stood there watching and making no move to help, the bastards.

“You’re not going to stop them?” he called out at a middle-aged wizard smoking leisurely on his porch. “They’ll die if they fall from that height!”

“They’re muggles,” the wizard gave him a cold look. “They can’t fly themselves up, that’s their fault.”

Dick growled and turned back towards the frightened crowd. He heard rather than saw Nightwing swoop down and snatch the wizard’s pipe from his hand, and held his arm out so the owl could drop it into his palm.

“That’s mine, you damn muggle-sympathizer!” the wizard yelled at him. Dick, more out of spite than anything, transfigured the wooden contraption into a large clacking spider that chased the wizard back into his house.

He heaved himself below the cliff and began a few complex incantations that would weave an invisible net across the stone. Mid-chant, he heard a warning hoot; he whirled around just in time for the sizzling red sting of a _Stupefy_ to smash the rock behind him.

“There he is, the little fly,” a voice cooed from all around him. Behind, above, below. He flinched when another _Stupefy_ grazed his left ear, leaving a bleeding gash that dripped down his face. “A fly that dares disrupt our sacrifice?”

A pause, and then the first muggles fell.

Dick cursed and gave up on his incantations. Just drew Bruce’s wand and shouted as many levitation spells as he could: _Mobilicorpus! Mobilicorpus!_

He saved several, but there were too many. Dick could only watch in horror as more than a few fell to their deaths, their screams too much for him to stand. His magic roiled angrily beneath his skin, and if only he could just let loose and let it go—let it envelope these people who reminded him so awfully like his parents—if only—

Something was tamping down his magic, though. Something dark and oily and familiar, and Dick’s horror over the lives he couldn’t save shifted into horror over the wizard behind all of this.

“R’as,” he hissed and tried to climb back up the cliff. Something grabbed his ankle and tugged him down, however, and only years of martial arts training kept him from losing his grip entirely. “Stop this! What do you want!”

“We wanted you, once upon a time,” the voice hissed, and Dick felt something else grab his other ankle. He tried summoning his magic up to free him, but he was drawing empty. Panic lurched in his throat. This felt like those awful years when he’d been trapped in that stone, when his magic had been _right there_ but unreachable. “But you’re magic is no longer free, are you? It’s locked away from us. It’s _useless_.”

“Help us!” a girl’s voice called out, and Dick turned and saw several children teetering on the tiny ledge he’d been able to create with his magic before he’d been interrupted. The girl in question was hanging right off the edge, dark hair spilling over her shoulder. “Help!”

“And without Arthur by your side,” the voice said, “you’re _nothing_.”

A shrill hoot, and suddenly Nightwing was sweeping right down past Dick. The owl clearly ripped into _something_ , because the weight on Dick’s ankles disappeared as quickly as it’d come. The voice shrieked and wailed and clawed at the dark bulk of the owl, and Dick used the distraction to level himself up.

He gathered his suddenly freed magic, and poured it out to save the remaining victims from the fate that befell those below. Dick swallowed. He couldn’t think of the ones he hadn’t saved; he couldn’t think of any of that until the mission was over.

He managed to lift the muggles back onto secure land and collapsed on the grass beside them. He cast a disillusionment charm, thankfully, so the muggles couldn’t see him and question their mysterious savior. Nightwing pulled up the last few stragglers and then hopped-skipped to where Dick was sprawled on the grass.

He breathed until he felt something twitch under his skin. He sat up and peered around for its source, and it took far too long for him to realize he should be looking down.

Dick leaned over the edge and saw a shadowy figure tapping the forehead of each murdered muggle with a wand. She was clearly beautiful and dark and dangerous; brown hair flowed over her shoulders and creamy-brown wrists peeked through her dress robes.

She was devastatingly familiar… and then she looked up and smiled at him.

He scrambled backwards so fast, he tripped over Nightwing and they landed in a squawking heap.

“Morgana,” he whispered, and felt something cold and icy crawl down his spine. He remembered water forced down his throat, his breath being stolen away. He remembered the shadowy darkness whispering in his dreams and its promise. _You must know I’m coming for you._

 

\--

 

Two days later, a storm broke out over castle grounds.

"Professor Grayson!” a fourth-year Slytherin shouldered past the younger Slytherins Dick was rallying towards the dungeons. “Professor, there’s—they—Wolfe’s stuck in the Willow, we need help!”

“Bentley, Lin,” Dick ordered the Slytherin prefects, “take the rest of the first- and second-years to the dungeons beside the potions room. Do not come out under any circumstance, do you understand me?”

“Yes, Professor,” Bentley immediately took charge. Dick had no other choice but to leave the other students in her capable hands as he hurried back up to the howling storm outside.

Clearly magical in origin, the storm whirled and wailed around the thrashing figure of the Whomping Willow. Dick drew close enough to see the shadow of a hysterical Wolfe being swatted up into the air in the midst of the chaos. A group of likewise rule-breaking fourth-years were gathered as close as they dared, trying to shield themselves from the downpour and stun the Willow at the same time. It just twisted around and smacked Wolfe back into the dirt with a heart-wrenching thud.

“Get back!” Dick commanded the terrified group of Slytherins. Wolfe tried crawling his way out, face bloody and desperate, but the Willow curled its branches around his ankles and yanked him screaming through the dirt.

“ _Petrificus Totalus,_ ” Dick snapped. Wolfe froze and dropped immediately. His friends cried out, but Dick waved them back with a hand.

After only a minute or so, the Willow stopped its assault in favor of thrashing at the storm above instead. It left Wolfe bloody and battered but no longer under attack at its base.

“Head back inside!” he shouted at the students, “Get out of the storm, it’s not safe!”

He didn’t turn to face the Willow again until they were safely within the castle walls, because Slytherins were loyal but also smart. The more kids running underfoot, the more chance someone else would be caught in the crossfire too.

“ _Mobilicorpus!_ ” Dick yanked Wolfe’s body out from under the tree—fast enough that the Willow, now agitated again, thwapped the empty ground Wolfe had been in a split second before. He floated the boy safely down onto the ground beside him. He spotted the silhouettes of the other professors approaching fast towards the commotion, obviously realizing the storm’s true target. He shouted at the closest one: “Take him to Madam Brown! He’s hurt badly, we can’t—”

“Professor Grayson!” the professor in question gasped—

And Dick turned in time to see the Willow snap a branch out and grab him by the waist.

“Ah shit,” he muttered, just as the tree yanked him into its twisted branches.

Dick came to with the storm raging above him. He could barely see anything past the debris and rain and all sorts of nastiness whipping about, and it took him far too long to realize he was lying in the remains of the Willow. It was like the tree had imploded from within.

“Merlin!” a thin female voice called out from behind him. A blond girl in strange wizarding garb stumbled shakily from the ruins of the trunk. She looked upwards at the storm with wide blue eyes and flinched back at another thunderstrike. “Merlin?”

The storm struck again, this time close enough to the new witch she jumped back and narrowed her eyes.

“ _Morgana,_ ” she hissed at the storm, and raised her hands. With little more than a thought, she heaved up the remainder of the Willow’s trunk into the air and tossed it at the heart of the storm. Dick recognized the taste of that magic. Arthurian magic. The storm shredded it like paper through a blade, and the girl _howled_.

“You call this magic, witch?” she shouted. “I’ll show you _magic_.”

The air trembled as more foreign—Arthurian—magic poured out from her hands. It parted the storm to strike at its core, and with it Dick suddenly saw the spell keeping the storm together. The muggle sacrifices. The foreign, metallic taste of magic in the air. Dark magic at its finest, founded on blood sacrifice and pain.

Two forces didn’t cancel each other out. They created craters and wars and devastation, and this storm could shred Hogwarts apart.

Heedless of his colleague’s shouts, Dick stepped right into the middle of the storm and forced his own magic into the shape of a sword. Dark magic battered him immediately from all sides, vicious and bloodthirsty but nothing as bad as the time Merlin had sealed away his magic.

He raised his blade.

It tore right through corded threads of the storm and the witch’s attack, cutting into the center of the tangled knot between them before the magic could detonate.

And then something gave way with a loud explosion and flung Dick into the air. He cracked his head on something hard and unforgiving, and then the world faded away.

 

\--

 

He woke up in Madam Brown’s infirmary feeling like he’d been put through a meat grinder.

“You’ll need to take a few potions, love,” the elderly woman told him kindly, bustling about the room. Dick blinked and turned to survey the rest of the patients. Wolfe was safely tucked in another cot, bruises and scratches already patched up and with a calming spell hovering over his concussed head. “Mr. Wolfe and the rest of Hogwarts are just fine thanks to your intervention. God knows what would have happened if that storm burst closer to the castle. Though we do have—other problems.”

“Like a girl coming out of the Whomping Willow,” Dick tried to get up and hissed.

Madam Brown floated a few choice vials at him. “Your potions, young man.”

“Lavender—”

“Don’t you ‘Lavender’ me,” she uncapped the vials and watched like a hawk as he reluctantly downed them. “I never thought I’d see _you_ in my infirmary, not with your constitution.”

“I’m _fine._ Just… can you at least tell me what’s happening?”

Madam Brown suddenly became extremely interested in putting the vials back in their place in the cabinet. Dick narrowed his eyes at her, and she relented, “I’m not supposed to say—on account of your relationship with the subject, Dick.”

“My _relationship?”_

“The girl kept calling for Merlin over and over,” Madam Brown said. “What else could we do but have Miss Zatara contact Superman?”

Dick didn’t have to wait long to figure out who had come alongside Clark.

Bruce was definitely here; Dick could sense him and his familiar amulet magic all over Wonder Woman and Green Arrow when they stopped by.

“When they told us _you_ helped stop the storm, we could barely believe it,” Oliver Queen propped himself up next to his bed. “Bats had a lot of explaining to do, and I can’t say I’m not disappointed. You’ve always been the best muggle out of all of us, Rob, and you weren’t even a muggle.”

“Oliver!” Diana elbowed him for his tactlessness. She glanced at Dick, and her expression softened. “It’s good to see you again, Dick. Stopping that storm… your control over your magic has really improved, hasn’t it?”

“Sure,” Dick shrugged. “Though it still would have been easier if Bruce was there.”

The two League members glanced at each other.

Dick chuckled at their hesitant, almost guilty expressions. “Don’t worry guys, I know he’s not going to visit.”

“If it helps,” Diana sighed, crossing her arms, “he did come see you when you were still sleeping. Just… you know how he is…”

“He’s _Bruce_ ,” Dick said. He reached out and squeezed both their hands. “Thanks guys. Go investigate, and I’ll do my best to get myself back on my feet.”

“Don’t push yourself too hard,” Diana warned, and then ruffled his hair like he was a kid again. He laughed and couldn’t help the nostalgic warmth forming in his chest. For a long time, the other Leaguers had been like his extended family. They _were_ his family, in the past and in the present. Merlin, Percival, Gwaine and Bors… and all the other knights of the Round Table. It reminded Dick of what he’d left behind.

 

\--

 

For better or worse, Dick didn’t even have the chance to hunt Bruce down and shake some sense into him. Lavender wouldn’t let him out of the infirmary.

“You’re not recovered!” she snapped the third time he asked, and Dick felt like a petulant child.

“I can walk! I can use magic! Come on, Lavender,” he whined anyway, and pouted when she shook her wand at him in response. Even with Nightwing at his side, the infirmary was terribly lonely. An hour after she’d left, he started unraveling the alarm spells around his cot. He was midway through a more complicated charm when the door creaked open, and a visitor he hadn’t expected walked in.

“I don’t know why the others are so surprised you were a wizard,” the teenager said, dressed in a familiar-but-different Robin outfit. Dick had been hoping for someone larger, darker and more pointy-eared to show up, but he supposed that would be asking too much. “I mean, everyone in the Titans keep going on and on about your brilliance ‘despite being a muggle,’” and he even made air-quotes at that. “I couldn’t even tell them you were magic. That I was the first real muggle wonder, not you.”

“Gotham seemed to agree that Batman switched sidekicks,” Dick said. He was surprised at how big Jason was now, no longer the lanky and red-nosed boy from years ago. He was what—fifteen? Sixteen? The longer he stood there staring at Dick through his domino mask, the more Dick really began to realize how much this boy had truly replaced him. He’d seen and lived with and grown up with Bruce for _years_.

It saddened him as much as it annoyed him, but any dark feelings he harbored were immediately banished by the memory of an injured Jason slumped in Batgirl’s arms.

He might not have kept in much contact with the Bats outside of Alfred, but they were still his family.

As if on cue, Jason lifted his chin. “You’re not one of _us,_ not really.” He narrowed his eyes. “I’m going to prove to everyone that the muggles from Gotham’s dirt can fight beside wizards too.””

“Of course they can,” Dick sighed, leaning back against his pillow. Oh good, teenage angst. “But sure, ambition is always good. Go be you, kid.”

“Don’t make fun of me,” Jason bristled. “I never understood why B me to you. You ran away from Robin. I can prove I’ve got what it takes.”

“Let me tell you a secret, Jay,” Dick beckoned him closer. Jason frowned at the nickname and refused to budge—but he didn’t leave, either. Dick said, in a faux whisper: “Sometimes Bruce is _full of shit_.”

“Bruce gave me everything,” Jason defended him immediately. “He’s the _Batman_.”

“He’s a thirty-something mess, that’s who he is,” Dick laughed.

“Still the only parent to ever stick around,” Jason muttered. He scowled when Dick failed to react at that either. More awkward than angry now, because Dick was an adult who didn’t fall for every teenage jab, Jason shuffled backwards and scoffed down at the floor. “Don’t expect him to visit. He’s too busy talking to his _girlfriend_ to care. He’s not even in the castle right now.”

“Girlfriend?” Dick jerked his head up.

Jason rolled his eyes through his mask. “Yeah—not sure what he sees in her, honestly. C’mon, B. _Talia al Ghul?”_

Every glass surface in the room shattered at once, an ear-piercing cacophony of noise and glittering shards. Jason flung out his arms in honest surprise, right before Nightwing extended its massive wings and shielded the boy from harm.

“Dick!” Robin shouted, and Dick realized the shards were still floating in the air. The glass was inching incredibly close to his bare skin, and would have already begun slicing his cheeks if Nightwing hadn’t hopped onto his shoulder and wrapped both wings around his head. Still, the owl couldn’t protect him everywhere.

Dick would have felt more betrayed by his pet if Jason didn’t look so _scared_. 

Flushing red, he gathered all the glass into a large clump and dropped it to the floor. Free at last, Jason took a step back with Nightwing still snuggled against him.

“What _are_ you?” he whispered, hands coming up and grabbing Nightwing’s feathers without realizing it. Hidden in those black and blue wings, Jason looked eerily like his thirteen-year old self. He fled, owl and all, most likely in search of Bruce. You know, the one that didn't almost stab out his eye.

Dick forced himself to prioritize.

“Lavender!” Dick shouted. He tapped an alarm spell for good measure. “Lavender! I need to see Batman, is he here?”

A brief pause and shuffle, and then she said, “No, it seems like he went off to conduct some business. He’ll be back tonight, however.”

Bastard. He was going to have to pull out the big guns, wasn’t he?

Dick stuck a foot off the cot and jiggled it, setting off, like, a hundred safety alarms.

Clark appeared instantly.

“Dick!” the Arthurian Wizard said, his face set in his Lecturing Hero Mode. “Madam Brown has made it clear to us that you’re not allowed to—”

“Do you know where Bruce went?” Dick got straight to the point, pulling himself up and out of bed. Clark looked taken aback. “It’s Morgana. She’s leading him into a trap.”

“Woah!” Clark held him up when he tried dashing off. He was getting better, but sudden movements like that weren’t the best idea. “Dick, you can’t go running about. And if it’s about Morgana, our guest is already on the case.”

“What?” Dick frowned, taken off guard. “ _Who?”_

 

\--

 

The girl from the tree sat sulkily in a chair in the Headmaster’s Office. She glared up at him even when Clark stood by her side.

“Dick,” he said, putting his hand on her shoulder. “This is my cousin and past protégé, Kara. You may know her by her sorceress name, Nimue.”

“The Lady of the Lake?” Dick said, drawing on his old childhood tales.

“And you’re Excalibur, the Sword of Light,” Kara threw him a scathing look. Dick resisted the urge to flinch; he hated hearing the sound of his old name. “This is ridiculous, Merlin. I can hunt Morgana down on my own.”

“We’ve gone over this,” Clark said. “Let’s say you figure out the floo system and portkeying and all the other new wizarding customs. What if you do find her? The only thing that can destroy her is Nabu, who is his own force, or wielding Excalibur. You _need_ Dick’s power.”

“I don’t need anything!” Kara yelled. “Especially not that traitor! We could have won if he’d just _shown up_ , Merlin—”

“Clark.”

“What?”

“I’ve told you it’s Clark, Kara,” the wizard said. “Can you please…”

“You can fly, can’t you?” Dick interrupted, looking at Kara.

“I can travel as fast as light,” Kara said, sounding offended. “Why?”

“Because Morgana has Bruce right now, and I’ll be damned if she takes him away from me again,” Dick said in a matter-of-fact tone. “I need you to fly me to where they are.”

“I’m not a _wagon_ ,” Kara hissed at the same time Clark said, “What are you on about, Dick?”

“Morgana could’ve killed Kara in a hundred subtler ways than a storm. That storm was flashy on purpose, because her _real_ goal wasn’t to kill Nimue—Kara—whatever she goes by. She wanted to draw you guys here,” Dick said. “Give Bruce a legitimate, JLA-sanctioned excuse to investigate around Wales with no one but _her_ as company.”

“Bruce isn’t not in contact with Morgana,” Clark insisted. “I would know.”

“Really. ‘Cause he and Jason _just_ went to follow a lead in Wales, chasing a lead Bruce’s new ‘girlfriend’ gave him. Tell me you haven’t noticed him cozying up to the al Ghuls,” Dick couldn’t help the concern bleeding into his voice. He let his raw magic pour out of his hand and created a glowing facsimile of Morgana’s current look. “Have you ever _seen_ Talia?”

“Fuck,” Clark said with feeling, staring at the glowing portrait—“Fuck, _fuck_.” And then he shot right out the window without even a goodbye. Headmaster Neville was going to cry when he saw what those glass shards had done to his plant babies.

Before Kara could move, Dick clamped a hand on her wrist.

“You’re taking me too,” he said, voice offering no question. “Bruce will need me by his side.”

“I see you care _now_ ,” the Arthurian witch bitched cryptically, but acquiesced without any more hesitation.

By the time they figured out where Bruce had gone and arrived at the sleepy town the Whomping Willow had come from, however, it was too late. Jason was dead.

 

\--

 

(“Bruce,” Dick gasped, floating himself down from the edge of the crater and stumbling over to the bowed figure in its center. He hadn’t—he hadn’t seen Bruce in _years_ , and for their face-to-face reunion to be _this_? It wasn’t fair.

Jason lay in Bruce’s lap, battered and beaten and just—showing the telltale blister-patterns on his hands and legs that meant he’d been crucio’d. Dick had _just seen him_ earlier today. He had even argued with him.

If it wasn’t for the tense line of Bruce’s shoulders, he might have thought Jason was only sleeping.

“Oh Bruce,” he repeated and curled an arm around Bruce’s cowled neck. He pressed his face to his temple like they’d never been apart. It was like hugging an ice statue, Bruce was so stiff, but he didn’t push him away.

And then Dick’s magic began seeping into the man pressed against him: tentative at first, like it wasn’t sure if this dream was coming true; and then steadier, faster, an electric charge that a younger Dick had found comfort in. It was different now that he had better control. He wasn’t sinking magic into him because he had to. It was because he wanted to.

It was an exhilarating feeling he hadn’t experienced in years, so much so his body was greedy for it. He only forced himself to stop when Batman shuddered in overwhelmed sensation; when he minutely turned his head and blinked his eyes.

“What happened,” Dick asked before noticing the dark red stain blooming on his dress-robes. Bruce kept looking down at Jason even as Dick tugged his cape aside. An awful scratch ripped through the magic-resistant armor, gouged right into Batman’s side and bleeding profusely.

“Bruce, what happened?” Dick whispered, and was surprised when the Bat finally answered him.

“I made a mistake,” he said, voice little more than a growl. “And they took him from me in return.”)

 

\--

 

It took them all far too long to realize how literal that statement was. Because Nightwing hadn’t been anywhere near the scene, and after a few days it became obvious that the body in the morgue wasn’t Jason’s at all. It was a shell, a copy, one that sent the too-silent Bruce into a rage that threatened to shake Hogwarts down to its core.

“She has him,” he roared, upending anything he could get his hands on. Dick spelled anything broken back together and watched Bruce with concerned eyes. It was almost scary how easy it was to fall into old patterns; to press his hand to Bruce's shoulder and soothe him like he used to. “She’s had him for _five days_ and you expect me to do nothing?”

“The Aurors are already doing all they can…” Headmaster Longbottom tried to soothe this frightening, stormy American the best he could, but Bruce was an unstoppable force when unleashed.

“R’as Al Ghul has been a thorn in the Ministry’s side since the very beginning,” he’d whirled on the elderly wizard with cold Batman eyes. “Are you saying your people won’t accept the help of the JLA in tracking him down.”

“To be frank, Mr. Wayne,” Headmaster Longbottom raised his chin. “I’m saying we’re unwilling to accept _your_ help. Not when you’re so clearly compromised.”

“Headmaster,” Dick intervened before Bruce could blow a gasket. He put a firm hand on Bruce’s arm. “We believe my owl Nightwing is following the al Ghuls at the moment. We can track it to wherever Jason has been taken. If you’re worried about Bruce being compromised…” and really, Dick knew how much angrier this would make Bruce. He didn’t care. “I can accompany his search.”

“You will do _no such thing_ ,” Bruce bellowed, and Dick just smiled with all his teeth. “Dick!”

“This is a family matter, Headmaster,” Dick said, polite but firm. “I’d like to officially request leave while it’s taken care of. Zatanna has agreed to continue taking over my classes for the time being, and if that fails, I’ll be available via mirror-phone.”

Headmaster Longbottom sighed. Bruce fumed. Dick spent his night packing while ignoring the other JLA’s protests at the two of them traveling alone, and then resolutely followed Bruce out of the castle in the morning.

Still, he should’ve known Bruce would spend the entire time ignoring him.

“What is your deal!” he’d hissed when he finally caught up to Bruce, because the man had left him in a canyon. Filled with vampires. Angry, hissing vampires whom Talia had clearly pissed off, because just the sight of humans had had them going after their blood.

Bruce didn’t even look up from the tiny inn bed, not even when Dick turned around and shucked off his uniform until he was stark naked. He _Accio_ ’d a clean pair of boxers and a t-shirt from his expandable luggage, dressed, and then crawled onto the bed.

“You _know_ I could help here, B,” he said quietly, sitting cross-legged beside him. “You know we can take her down if we work together.”

Bruce continued to ignore him. Pissed off and tired and still worried sick over Jason, Dick abandoned caution and wrapped his arms around Bruce’s shoulders. The man tensed but didn’t shove him away. Just set his jaw and turned his head when Dick pressed their cheeks together from behind.

“Bruce,” he pushed.

“It’s my fault,” the man finally said. His breaths were harsh with anger. “Mine, Dick. Again.”

“You’re not going to help him when you’re so emotional,” Dick said. “A clear mind’s needed for rational thought. Isn’t that what you always said? Meditation…”

“To _hell_ with meditation!” Bruce growled venomously, shaking Dick off and jumping to his feet.

Dick’s temper flared. “For god’s sake—sit _down_ , Bruce!”

The Batman just snarled and paced the small inn room. Dick folded his arms and glared.

“Can you at least lie down,” he said. Bruce glared at him like Dick had no right ordering him around. As he’d just been throwing a tantrum like some five-year-old, Dick didn’t think Bruce had the right to say anything. “Lie _down_. You know better than to pace.”

The older man huffed and glowered and took his time, but he eventually lay down on his back. Awkward and stiff as a board, yes, but Dick was going to take what he could get.

“Close your eyes,” he said.

Bruce looked at him intently, dark blue eyes as knowing as ever. He let them flutter shut. Lying there beside him, Dick was perfectly aware of how precious Bruce’s trust was. The paranoid bastard hated meditating with anyone but his Robin… Robins, he supposed. He didn’t trust anyone else not to stab him with his eyes closed.

“I know you know the rest from here,” Dick said. He put his hand on Bruce’s head and stroked his hair back, and he could feel the man tense and shift beneath his touch. His magic rolled through his body, sank down into Bruce to the beat of his blood. It wasn’t even intentional; his magic just wanted to commit to memory Bruce’s shape again. It felt really good, in the calming soul-warming way he remembered from his youth. “Hey, it’s just me, Bruce. I’ll watch over you.”

“Three and a half years, Dick,” Bruce said, voice flat. “A lot can change in that time.”

Dick tried not to feel too insulted. “You think I’ve changed?”

Bruce didn’t respond. Just breathed out as Dick continued to brush back his dark hair. It was shorter than how he’d worn it when Dick had left, but longer than it had been in the dream. Which raised a lot of interesting questions that Dick had refused to think about, and so he focused instead on trailing his fingers over his scalp. Bruce eventually relaxed after a few more minutes, and even leaned into his touch when Dick trailed a hand down his stubbled jaw.

“I’m not sure,” Bruce finally said, and it took Dick a fuzzy moment to realize what he was talking about. He’d gotten too caught up in sweeping his thumb under Bruce’s eye, in sending magic just below his skin and listening to the lifeblood running through his veins. “I have too many doubts. My head’s not clear.”

“When’s the last time you’ve meditated?”

“That’s irrelevant.”

“It’s perfectly relevant,” Dick said. He ran his fingers down the strong muscle of Bruce’s neck and shoulder. He slipped them boldly under the collar of his t-shirt. The scarred skin below was warm and familiar, and Bruce didn’t shift away. Dick rubbed circles in the dip of his collarbone before reluctantly withdrawing his hand and smoothing it down Bruce’s arm. “Why doesn’t it surprise me to hear you’ve been neglecting yourself?”

Bruce sighed. He always looked younger when he relaxed, which happened rarely enough that Dick never failed to startle when he saw it. He sighed again when Dick smoothed his hand back up. It was a pleasant sigh. “It’s not neglect.”

“Is too,” Dick flicked Bruce’s cheek and smiled when the man wrinkled his nose in distaste. “Now clean your mind room, mister. Or I’m calling Alfred.”

He yelped when Bruce’s hand shot out lightning fast and pinched his side. Dick retaliated by crawling on top of him. Bruce had softened up enough for affection, and it was almost like how they used to be. He nuzzled his face and curled up on his chest like a large, snuggly cat, as if he could shield Bruce from the breakdown looming in the horizon.

He couldn’t, but he could stave it off as long as possible. They needed the Batman’s wit if they wanted Jason’s safe return.

He pet Bruce’s hair until the man finally, _finally_ seemed to drift off into sleep. It let him look over Bruce with unabashed interest.

The new scars beneath his collar; the tired line below his eyes; the foreign and yet familiar feel of Bruce breathing intimately beneath him. They marked this Bruce as older than the one he’d left behind.

They marked this Bruce as the same one from the dream that had left a faint scar on his face.

“You love me?” Dick whispered, because it had been months and he hadn’t been sure of how real that part of the dream had been until now. There were too many similarities between the Dream Bruce and this one, though, even if he’d once dismissed Dream Bruce because of his affection.

Dick stared at him long and hard before firmly tucking his head under his chin. He closed his eyes and fell asleep to the rhythmic pattern of Bruce’s breaths beneath him.

 

\--

 

When Dick blinked awake the next morning to an empty bed, he wasn’t even surprised. Bruce hated vulnerability.

The first few times he'd been left behind, Dick had caught up by following the metal-blue rose in Bruce's utility belt. He was positive Bruce carried it with him for this very purpose, because Dick could track his blood magic to the ends of the earth.

(It brought up the question, though, of what enough flowers could allow Dick to do. He’d taken tangible form through his flowers before, even in the calm lull of sleep.)

This time he couldn’t sense the flower. It meant they were getting close to Morgana, the only witch powerful enough to create wards that negated its effects.

He caught up to Bruce by tracking down Talia’s vampires instead.

The attack yesterday made a little more sense, because Dick doubted they were following Talia out of their own free will. Morgana and the Dark had called up armies of darkness in their siege of Camelot, too: dark creatures like vampires and werewolves who were forced to do their bidding via a sealing charm.

The vampires ghosted the mountainside leading to Talia’s temporary castle, and while they were untraceable by conventional spells, Dick could smell them. They were all dark, metallic magic, and after sneaking into the castle, he came against one face-to-face.

Dick grabbed her by the neck and cracked her head against the brick.

“Intruder!” the vampire woman hissed, and then threw him off of her. He flipped onto his feet and drew out Bruce’s wand. During their next tussle he spotted the sealing brand glowing faintly on her neck—and then yelped when the vampire bared her fangs and swiped at him with razor-sharp claws. He ducked and kicked her again, and kept flitting about until he caught her off-guard.

Modern magic couldn’t crack that seal, but Excalibur could slice through anything.

He cracked it with one punch of his magic, and the vampire woman fell to her knees with a gasp.

She put her hand to her neck and coughed. Flexed like she was exercising long-unused muscle and let out a sigh of relief. She looked at him with large, silver eyes and said, “Thaaank you, human.”

“Where are they?” Dick demanded, wand still drawn even as the vampire made no move to attack. “The two men with Morgana?”

“One man,” the vampire said, and Dick’s blood turned to ice. “The other one is too far gone.”

“What does that mean,” Dick said. The vampire stared at him blankly, even when he shoved her back. “What does that—just tell me where they are!”

She cocked her head. “Freeee the rest of my clan, and I will lead you to them myssself.”

There were four members of her clan, and Dick didn’t have time to wonder if they’d tie him up and drain him afterwards. Vampires were dark but not inherently evil; just one of a subtype of creatures susceptible to Morgana’s spells. Close enough to humans that converting one to another wasn’t impossible, which said something about their sentience. When he freed the last one, all but the original vampire vanished through the stone walls.

She led him down a cavern and showed him to a staircase.

“The altaaarr is below,” she hissed. “There is little time left, human. And to repayyy you in full…”

She reached into her mouth and grabbed her fang. She tore it out with determined stoicism, even when Dick startled backwards at the violence. Strange, vampiric fluid dribbled out of the wound, and she dropped the fang into his palm.

“The sscales are even,” she said. “Goood bye.”

She turned and melted through the stone like the others. Dick clenched the fang in his fist. There was only one use for a vampire fang. Converting a human into a vampire… it was an archaic practice, all but lost after the vampires and wizards signed their peace treaties. Still, it was a gift. He placed the fang into his gauntlet and then headed down below.

He would’ve been angrier at Bruce if he hadn’t caught sight of Jason lying deathly still on the altar. The real Jason this time, his magic whispered, so close to death that Dick’s skin crawled. It was Morgana’s magic rolling about him, draining him mercilessly for some ritual.

And then he had no more time to think, because there Bruce was kneeling in front of Talia. _Kneeling_ , his king, and offering up his own life. Dick’s anger had a new target entirely.

Dick flung a vicious spell at this witch that had snuck into Bruce’s life when Dick hadn’t been looking—just like she’d done all those years ago.

“My, my, Excalibur,” she cooed, even when Dick had shredded through the wards around her with a flick of his wrist. Bruce took advantage of the distraction to try and free Jason, but the wards around the altar were clearly complex. “It’s finally good to see you face-to-face. You’ve always been quite beautiful.”

“You can’t beat me, Morgana,” Dick breathed, “Not without your father or your dark servants. Not on your own.”

The woman just cocked her head. She said, almost sad, “I can’t. Pity that you’ve made the same mistake this time around too. You could have chosen a far worthier master than my beloved. Someone who knew how to use your power to its full potential and not waste it on chivalry and charity.”

She raised a hand and pushed him back with a dark pulse of magic. It was the same flavor as the vampire’s seals, and in the same family as the one that had invaded his soul once before. R’as Al Ghul’s oily magic reared its head in Dick’s memory, and along with it came the rage, the disgust, that visceral feeling of _No, no, no_. The entire foundation of their battleground _screamed_.

“Dick!” Bruce snapped a second too late.

Dick could only stare blankly at the destruction above him, around him. He was going to bring the castle on top of their heads, and he couldn’t stop it.

Nightwing swooped down and landed on Jason’s still body, breaking something with a crack and allowing Bruce to scoop him up with an arm. He grabbed Dick with his other arm, and then they were floating right out of the wreckage. Bruce’s absorbed power shielded them from the worst of the crumbling architecture, and Dick wasn’t naïve enough to think Morgana had been vanquished by _rocks_.

He grabbed Bruce’s hand as they landed on a cliff above. His breathing was still hard, his mind still panicked. He could still feel the Dark’s hands trying to force him under its control.

Dick watched the rubble below settle slowly, and a pang of guilt flitted across his worried mind. The castle had been a beauty, once.

Bruce observed him as he tried to get his panic under control. Finally, he raised their joined hands—and the castle breathed. Dick let out a little gasp, because Bruce was pushing the magic through him like dull metal refining in fire. It was a perfect circle: Dick’s magic flowed into Bruce, who sent it right back warmed and controlled and more powerful by far than anything he’d ever felt.

The rubble flew up into the air and began reassembling. Melding and reforming together, and soon it seemed almost impossible that this beautifully reconstructed castle had been stone and brick rubble just a few minutes before.

“Bruce,” Dick whispered, feeling the magic return to him. He grinned at him in exhilaration, because that had been _amazing_. And then his smile dropped. Bruce’s expression was devastation and anger. Despair.

“Bruce,” Dick repeated tentatively when Bruce shook off his hand and settled Jason in his lap. Nightwing landed on his shoulder and hooted. Dick looked down at Jason and really saw him.

He was almost gone.

Dick wondered if it was possible to do the same thing they’d done to the castle. He pressed his hand to Jason’s chest—and recoiled at the snarling dark magic wreaking havoc beneath the skin. Morgana.

“Jason,” Bruce said quietly, brushing the boy’s sweat-damp hair away from his forehead. “Jason, please. You’re strong, Jay, you can pull through—“

“The curse is too deep for me to cut away,” Dick said. “Not without killing him too.”

“No one is killing him!” Bruce snarled. He clutched Jason’s body aggressively. “He’s still breathing. We’ll take him back to Hogwarts.”

“How? Apparition is too strenuous,” Dick hated being the voice of reason. Bruce usually took this role, because Bruce had little problem playing a monster. “And even with a broom or bus we won’t make it back in time.”

“Then put him in a stasis-chamber.”

“The curse is spelled to continue working even within a stasis field—”

“We’ll put him in one together.”

“She warded it specifically against me, B! I can’t get through!” Dick shouted, surprised to find himself teary-eyed. He’d only known Jason peripherally, had even resented him for a long while. But this past week tracking him down, those brief conversations they’d had over the phone, the one incident with Nabu where he’d almost lost him… he couldn’t help but feel a sense of camaraderie with a fellow Robin. Losing him now after finally retrieving him was far too cruel. “Our power can’t fight this. Bruce! Bruce, look at me.”

He reached out and tried to put his hand on Bruce’s face, but the man jerked back with a growl. His eyes were wide and wild beneath the cowl, and Dick was struck with the realization that this could break him.

Losing Jason would break Bruce’s heart, just as he and Dick had finally started patching things up between them.

Which was when he realized exactly what the vampire had given him as her final reward.

Dick scrambled to unclip a compartment on his gauntlet. He finally snapped it open and shook the vampire fang out into his palm.

Bruce tensed. “What is that.”

“He’s dying, Bruce, and there’s no way we can undo the curse in time.” Dick said quietly. The pale, white tooth in his hand felt heavy with decision. “A conversion’s the only thing that might save him.”

Bruce looked at Dick in horror, “No.”

“It’ll save his life,” Dick shouted. “The undead aren’t dead, not really. But once the soul moves past the veil, there’s no way to bring them back entirely. Are you going to bet Jason’s life on a—a miracle just because you’re afraid of the nonhuman?”

“He wouldn’t want this,” Bruce said. “He’d rather die.”

“He’s a sixteen-year-old. They want a lot of things that don’t make sense,” Dick whispered, and watched with tight lips as Bruce’s eyes fluttered shut in pained defeat.

 

\--

 

Watching had been perhaps the most horrible part.

 

\--

 

“Isn’t it strange, Bruce?” Dick whispered against his neck when they were forced to stop at night. They’d tucked Jason’s deathly still body into the spare cot in the corner, and it had taken every bit of Dick’s power to convince Bruce to come to bed.

He would have stood vigil over Jason all night otherwise, and his mood was awful enough as it was.

Dick curled an arm around the older man’s waist and pressed his face to his shoulder. “I feel like no matter how much time passes, nothing _changes_. Always together but not together, and I’ve lost you to so many things, Bruce.”

The mission to protect Gotham. His obsession with Dick’s lost magic. Camelot and the Round Table and the JLA rolled into one. Desire and shame while Dick had been under his care.

He said in an almost scathing tone, “I hate you for it.”

It would have been more convincing if his magic hadn’t undermined him by curling around Bruce. Eager, unashamed hands stroked its master everywhere it could reach, nuzzling with affection that he couldn’t hide. Excalibur was a weapon meant to be wielded, after all, not left to gather dust.

It wanted to be used, and it wanted Bruce, and it didn’t understand why it couldn’t have him _now_.

“You’re wrong,” Bruce finally rumbled, turning so they faced each other. Dick huffed at how close they were, close enough to breathe each other’s air. Bruce reached up and cradled his cheek. Brushed his thumb—Dick tensed—he brushed his thumb where the faint bite-mark scar lay. He kept it there long enough that Dick was sure he _knew_ , and Dick found himself flushing a mortified red. It was one thing to realize the extent of his own magical abilities; it was another for Bruce to have picked up on it too. Before he could respond properly, Bruce smoothed his hand down his shoulder and back and rested in the dip above his ass. Dick shivered. “ _Everything’s_ changed.”

When Bruce rolled him over, Dick acquiesced easily. He shivered at the hot press of his erection against his hip, the way Bruce’s stubble scratched his neck when he leaned down and sucked a bruising kiss there. He slipped his hands under Bruce’s shirt and ran them greedily over the muscle there. He needed reassurance so much it hurt. He needed _something_.

It probably wasn’t healthy, but what was new.

“Bruce, _Bruce_ ,” he pushed and demanded, running a hand down broad, muscled shoulders once he was prepped and Bruce was pressing his cock inside. He only winced a little; it might have been a while but Dick knew how to use a dildo. “Don’t you dare leave, not after this—”

Bruce just pulled back and began to move. Dick cut off with a gasp. It was rough and almost cruel, in complete contrast to how Dick’s magic curled around them, moved through them, and it was even more electrifying than last time. The first time. Whatever.

It felt like they could do _anything_ together.

“You left first,” Bruce accused him.

Dick growled and dug his nails into his shoulder. “You fucking _lost your mind_ —”

“You cuffed me to the bed and raped me.”

“Like _hell_ that was rape!” Dick said, indignant, and ruthlessly forced a surprised gasp out of the older man with a roll of his hips. And then there was a long moment of them enjoying each other’s bodies even as they seethed at one another, almost kissing but not quite.

Dick wanted to rant and rave and say every stupid thing he’d kept to himself these last three and a half years. He wanted to berate Bruce for his pride, his ridiculous hard line, for not taking what was his. He couldn’t find the words, though, not with the almost possessive way Bruce was handling his body. It pissed him off enough for him to flip them over just to prove he could.

“Bruce,” he managed right before Bruce was moving again. Fucking hard up into him, near-careless and desperate—and Dick clutched the headboard and gave him back as good as he got. It was rough and debasing and beautifully human, and of course Dick should have expected something like this. They’d never been entirely good arguing with words. Using their bodies, on the other hand, was another matter entirely.

When Bruce came, he pulled out and spilled onto the floor. And then he wrestled Dick onto his back and got him off with his skilled tongue. It was a strange mistake for Bruce to make, because no one could suck cock that fondly without feeling. He slipped his mouth off just as Dick came, running an infuriating thumb up and down the base of his cock as come spattered onto the floor, the sheets, his face.

“F-Fuck,” Dick panted out, because there was come on his _eyelashes_. He shivered when Bruce’s thumb trailed up to the sensitive underside of his cockhead and gently ran across his slit. Squirming, he pressed a hand to the older man’s tousled hair and tried pushing his head back. “Bruce, sorry—ah!”

He arched when Bruce took him back into his mouth, one last, toe-curling suck, and it didn’t hit him until Bruce pulled off that he’d been cleaning him. As if to confirm his hypothesis, Bruce then rummaged through his belt for wipes and cleaned down himself and Dick—the mess on his face included, and _that_ image wasn’t good for his heart either—before settling back onto the blankets.

Just to be contrary, Dick cuddled against him. He stroked back his dark hair and felt the very worse sense of déjà vu, because he hadn’t been kidding when he said that nothing changed. Especially this. Bruce tensed, but clearly exhaustion was beating him down like a weathered stone. He relaxed as Dick kept petting him, enjoying the intimacy when he allowed himself to.

“Bruce,” he said, and then trailed off when he wasn’t sure what to say next. There’d been a time when he had an entire library of things he wanted to say. He pressed his mouth to his forehead and stifled the tears pricking at his eyes instead.

 

\--

 

They returned to the castle later the next day and finally let the healing wizards handle the deathly-still Jason.

“Whatever you can do, Lavender,” Dick said while they bustled him off to a hastily prepared room. “Just keep him alive.”

“You mean ‘undead,’” the infirmary witch corrected. “You might as well start using the correct terminology now, Professor Grayson. It’ll be… easier on everyone.”

Dick tilted his head and said nothing as the elderly witch headed back into the observation room. He tried hard not to glance around for whom he knew wasn’t there: for someone who clung hard to those he loved, Bruce had an annoying habit of disappearing when they needed him the most.

Like when Jason finally woke up.

The first thing that slipped out of his mouth wasn’t about Bruce or Dick or Talia. It was about something else entirely.

“The boy,” he gasped, clawing at a nurse’s arm. “The boy, where is he?”

“What boy?” Dick asked, hovering over him and patiently waiting for Jason’s wild eyes to settle on his face. When they did, the boy snarled—and involuntarily bared his new fangs.

“The boy with that _traitorous witch_ ,” he said. “Don’t tell me you left him there!”

“There wasn’t a boy when we went to rescue you, Jason,” Dick said. He held up a hand when the teenager tried to sit up. “And you’re in no shape to go looking for him.”

“What do you mean?” Jason glanced down, as if finally realizing he was in a hospital bed. It was awful to watch the horror dawn on his face, as he took in his noticeably paler skin and sharper senses. Jason paled even further, his eyes growing large and round. “What—”

Before Dick could warn him, Jason put his hand in his mouth and nearly cut his thumb on a fang.

“What did they do to me?” he whispered, low anger only barely managing to hide his panic. He clutched his neck next, as if searching for a bite mark, and then whirled on Dick when his fingertips met unmarred skin. “What happened to me?”

“We chose to save your life,” Dick said, unwilling to lie or evade. Jason jerked back from him, as if he didn’t believe Dick would go that far.

That _Bruce_ would go that far, in which case Dick wanted to ask Jason if he’d ever seen Bruce back out of _anything_.

The teenager breathed heavily instead, hands clenched into fists in his lap— and then he went for the mirror on the bedside table and came face-to-face with nothing.

Then, he dropped it to the floor and screamed.

 

\--

 

Miles away, a little boy sat slumped in a chair as he watched his mother work her magic.

“Where’s Jay?” he said, playing with a striking blue feather in his hand. He frowned when his mother didn’t answer, just kept sorting through her spellbooks and chanting various incantations that left glowing sigils in the air. “I want Jay.”

“Be quiet, Mordred,” she said, not looking up.

He scowled and scuffed his foot on the tile. He wanted to help, though Mother and Grandfather kept telling him he was too little. Not too little to talk to Jay, though that might be because the boy had been too weak from Mother’s spells to do anything to him.

Still, at least Jay talked to him.

He let himself out of the spell room and walked up to his sprawling bedroom in the attic. It was so _boring_ here, lonelier now that he knew what it was like to have someone listen.

“Y’know,” their prisoner had said hoarsely, voice barely audible from screaming for so long. The boy had visited out of curiosity at first; it was rare to entertain human visitors that weren’t of the Dark. “You don’t have to stay here, kid. Bats is gonna come soon. He’ll save us both.”

He furrowed his brow and stepped closer. “Whatsa bat.”

“A small flying rodent,” Jay actually cracked a smile. “Though the one I’m talking about is much bigger. A superhero.”

“Oh,” he’d furrowed his little brow before creeping back up the stairs.

Later, after a few more visits where Jay grew weaker and weaker, he finally asked, “Why?”

“Why what.”

“Why I go wi’ you.”

“Well if you come with us, you can play with Nightwing some more.” As if on cue, the owl hidden in the rafters swooped down and playfully nipped at the boy’s hair. The boy giggled and hugged the fluffy owl against him. He’d never had an owl before. He wanted one. “None of us will have to hide.”

“ _Charr?”_ Nightwing said, cuddling up against him.

“Don’ worry,” the boy whispered to the owl, petting its head. His face broke out into a wide smile when it trilled at him. “I’m not gonna tell.”

“He’s going to come for us,” Jay said in a faint voice. He was slumping back onto the ground with his eyes fluttering shut; the curse growing inside him was getting ever stronger. Still, his expression seemed determined. “And you can come with us too, Damian. I promise.”

“Okay, Jay,” Damian said solemnly. He reached out and patted the teenager’s hair too, though from his even breaths he’d clearly passed out. “Promise.”

Now the dungeon was empty, Nightwing was gone, and Damian was back to being all alone. He lay on his bed and pulled the covers over his head.

“You _promised_ ,” he whispered to himself, and closed his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Jason.
> 
> B and Dick work through their issues next chapter as the plot speeds up. Also more about Jason too!
> 
> The idea for the Whomping Willow: legend had Nimue trapping Merlin a tree, but in this verse it was the opposite. Merlin trapped Nimue in a tree to protect her, and the tree was spelled to guard itself. Hence the whomping. Morgana wanted to free Kara so she can use her in her plans...


	5. Part Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’ll have Zatanna come in and check on him,” the voice said. Dick. “She helped me when my magic came back—there’s no one else I can think of who can help Jay with change. At least, not until some of the Headmaster’s contacts send word back.”
> 
> “There _is_ one other person,” the nurse said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Plot centric. Lots of Jason. Bruce gets punished. 
> 
> I CAN FINISH THIS YES I CAN

Jason never remembered his dreams… just the feelings they left behind. It only grew worse after that disastrous encounter with Nabu, as if his subconscious was trying to warn him of dark times ahead.

“There’s something bad inside of me,” he once told Selina on a rare night he’d been left alone with the burglar. Batman had gone off in pursuit of some smuggled artifacts down by the docks and had left Robin to take Catwoman in. Which basically meant they hung out on some rooftop eating burritos until the Batmobile came into sight. “And no matter how much good I do as Robin, that dark feeling comes back eventually.”

“Wait, does this have to do with that time B grounded you?” Selina finished her burrito and licked her lips. “You know, when you visited Dickiebird in London and came back with your brain fried.”

“My brain wasn’t _fried_.”

“Close enough. Seriously, a muggle channeling magic? Not a good idea. And what’s this about being bad?”

“I…” Jason ducked his head so she couldn’t see his tears. He wasn’t a _baby_. He finally managed, in a quiet voice, “I don’t want to betray Bruce. I _won’t_ betray Bruce.”

“Oh Jay,” Catwoman sighed and took out her wand. She quickly spelled away the mess around them and leaned over to ruffle his hair. “No one’s fate is set in stone. Not mine, not yours. Not even Dick, who already broke rank when he ran away to soggy Britain. If you don’t want to betray Bruce, then don’t. No one’s making you.”

For a queen of Camelot, Selina was indeed living a very… different life. Still.

“And from one Crime Alley brat to another,” she continued, languidly leaping to her feet. Jason scrambled after her once he caught sight of the distinctive headlights of the Batmobile closing in fast down below. “Your life is as you make of it. And you, my dear…”

“…are Robin,” Jason whispered. He clasped Selina’s hand in his and took a deep breath. For a supposed enemy of Batman, she’d always been warm and welcoming and a safe haven of sorts, especially when Bruce was being especially difficult. Maybe it was because they were both alley brats. Maybe it was because she was as skittish as he was, as wary as he was, and sometimes he wanted so badly to relate to _someone._

Or maybe it was because of something else.

“Fly, little bird,” Selina urged—and then they jumped.

 

\--

 

Jason never remembered his dreams.

 

\--

 

“Fuck,” he gasped awake, the bitter taste of a nightmare still lingering on his tongue. No, not a nightmare. Inhuman blood from cutting his tongue on his fangs during the night, and the wrongness of it all hit him like a train. He had to bite his arm to keep from screaming. Black liquid stained the sheets, dark as night and painful as hell, and that just made everything _so much worse_ —

“How’s he doing?” someone was murmuring the next time he clawed his way back to consciousness. The nurse must have knocked him out. “Has there been any more… incidents?”

“He’s had one every night. No permanent damage, of course, but the conversion’s… not exactly easy on the mind.”

Jason took offense. He wasn’t _crazy_.

“I’ll have Zatanna come in and check on him,” the voice said. Dick. “She helped me when my magic came back—there’s no one else I can think of who can help Jay with change. At least, not until some of the Headmaster’s contacts send word back.”

“There _is_ one other person,” the nurse said.

Dick sighed in that part-fond, part-exasperated way Alfred often used, and then said in quiet voice: “He’ll come."

The next day, a vaguely familiar dark-haired woman strolled into the infirmary and hauled Jason up with a wave of her hand and some gibberish, “Teg pu!”

“You’ve been bored out of your mind, I assume,” she said, undeterred even when Jason curled his lip and bared his teeth at her. “Can’t think of any other reason you’d tear out your wrists every night. You _do_ know that’s not how vampires die? Their magic stops them from bleeding out.”

“I,” Jason gritted out, his throat scratchy from days not speaking, “am not _magic_.”

“You’re a vampire, Jason,” the woman—Zatanna—said. Her voice was gentle but firm. “That is, by definition, magic. So it’s time to pull on your big boy pants and say hi to the wizarding world.”

“Don’t want to.”

“We all have to do things we don’t want to, kid,” Zatanna said… and then sent a fireball hurtling at his head.

Jason managed to pin the crazy witch to the wall some scalpels in the blink of an eye , which was only a small victory given that she basically _seared off his face_. He couldn’t even look in the mirror to see how bad the damage was.

“Esaeler em,” Zatanna said, and the scalpels clattered to the floor. Jason snarled when she approached, but immediately stopped when she withdrew a smooth, rune-engraved stone from her pocket.

“Laever,” she said. The stone glowed, and soon an image flickered into being above it. It was Zatanna’s face. She tossed the stone at Jason, who caught it reflexively—

And stared gobsmacked when the image changed to _his_ face. His new vampire face complete with fangs and paler eyes than usual, as well as a huge pinkish wound across his left side that was healing right before his eyes.

“How…?” he turned his head this way and that.

“Vampires don’t have reflections. It’s a mirroring thing. _This_ uses no mirrors. Just magic that recreates an image like a hologram… ergo, allowing you to see how you look to others. Snazzy, huh?”

Jason stared at her and then went back to looking at the image projected above the stone. He bared his teeth and shivered at the sight of glinting fangs.

“It’ll show you an image of yourself whenever you pick it up and press your thumb on the rune,” Zatanna said.

Jason swallowed. “T-thank you.”

“Like I said, Jay,” the woman smiled down at him and stood up. “Welcome to the wizarding world.”

 

\--

 

Jason never remembered his dreams, but he knew they were usually nightmares. Once in a while, however, he’d wake up feeling as if his soul had been basking in the sun. He’d glance upwards and catch sight of Nightwing fluttering on an owl perch, and for some reason the familiar metallic glint of its wings brought tears to his eyes.

“I’m _not_ bad,” he whispered to himself. Even with the eerie chill of his skin; his extendable claws that tore through blankets like paper; the oily, thick blood coursing through his veins. Even with all of that, he could still be good. Selina had said so.

And if there was one thing he’d learned after the Great Wizard Batman had caught him stealing ward stones from his front yard, it was that Guinevere was almost always right.

 

\--

 

(“Jason, I know you’re awake,” Dick told him. Jason kept his eyes firmly shut. “I found him.”

Jason’s breath hitched against his will, but Dick was gracious enough not to press his point.

“We’re going to have a chat,” the man continued. After an awkward pause, he ventured, “If you want… you can come too.”

Jason clenched his fists. Squeezed his eyes shut. When it was clear Dick wasn’t going to go away without a definitive answer, he finally shook his head ‘no.’ Vampiric senses allowed him to hear rather than see Dick walk out of the infirmary and shut the door behind him.)

 

\--

 

“I don’t care how guilty you feel, Bruce,” Dick called out as he trekked to the haunting shore of the Lake of Avalon. Apparition was near impossible so close to such unbridled magic, and he was more than weary after half an hour of wading through the brush. He crouched down beside Bruce and shucked off his shoes. “Everyone Jason has ever had in his life has left him, and you can’t fucking leave him too.”

The man didn’t even turn around. He was in crisp civilian clothes and had his pants rolled up to his knees. Week-old stubble flourished along his jaw. Finally, a response: “He has you.”

“He doesn’t know me! He _needs_ you, he’s practically losing his mind without something familiar to hold onto, and here you are prioritizing some stupid kingdom that fell hundreds of years ago—”

Bruce glared in warning, which Dick brazenly ignored.

“—hanging out for a week near the portal to Avalon like the mission’s more important than a lost, confused _boy_ —”

“Enough!” Bruce roared, whirling to face him. Dick just crossed his arms. He wasn’t going to back down an inch, not when someone else’s psyche was on the line.

“When we went with Talia,” Bruce finally said, voice quiet and tight, “I knew it was a trap. I didn’t tell Jason; there was a chance he’d give it away with his… mediocre acting skills. He went in blind, and I wasn’t able to stop Talia from taking him.” His hand twitched. “From almost killing him, and forcing me—forcing us—”

He clenched his fists. “All so she could get at me, because I had gotten too close.”

Dick took a deep breath. Let it out.

“Forget what you should have done,” he said once he was relatively sure he wasn’t about to pick up a nearby rock and begin beating Bruce about the head with it. “And focus on what you can do now. Jason’s scared and lonely and he needs you to be there for him. He hasn’t told _anyone_ what happened during that week he was missing. Nothing but this ‘boy’ he mentioned once and never brought up again. He’s only going to open up to you.”

Bruce sighed.

“ _Bruce_ ,” Dick pushed, and the older man frowned and turned his head away. Dick cupped his stubbled cheek and softened his voice. “Please.”

“I don’t actually know how to do this,” and he sounded bewildered when he said it, like Dick was asking him for the world. And here, sitting across from the Isle of Avalon, where their fancy destined Camelot lay—he kind of was.

“Come back with me,” Dick said quietly.

“No.”

“ _Bruce_ —”

“No. But soon.”

Dick made a frustrated noise and pressed his forehead to Bruce’s shoulder. Bruce didn't move for a long, long time. Then, he lifted an arm and ran an infuriatingly gentle hand through his hair. It was uncharacteristic of him. Almost apologetic.

It was a promise, but it wasn't enough.

 

\--

 

Jason didn't take the news well.

“He’s not even trying to control his vampiric magic,” Zatanna informed him while eating him out of house and home. Seeing as Dick had done the same thing in her London apartment years back, he couldn’t protest. “It’s so raw and completely linked to his emotions, and I’m doing the best I can…”

“Would another vampire be more useful?”

“On paper, yes,” his friend sighed. “But with Jason’s… issues regarding his conversion, I doubt he'd accept a vampire as a long-time teacher.”

Dick rubbed the bridge of his nose. “What about… would attending Hogwarts classes help at all? Is vampire magic similar enough to classic magic?”

“As similar as your blood magic to classic magic,” Zatanna said.

“Good enough,” Dick said decisively, and jabbed Zee's fingers before she could steal his last sushi roll. Seriously, did she know how hard it was for him to go out and get sushi around here? Chewing on raw tuna distracted him from the mountains of paperwork ahead of him. And that wasn’t even taking into consideration Jason’s newfound desire to make everyone’s life around him as miserable as he possibly could.

“Madam Brown’s told me you haven’t been taking your potions,” Dick opened up the levitating drawer by Jason’s bedside and confirmed that yes, it was still fully stocked. “Take your potions.”

Jason glowered at him. He was already looking weaker, paler, the greenish-blue of his eyes fading rapidly into pale-gray. The kind of gray only vampires that tore into their wrists every night; that struggled and snarled and fought against even the easiest of lessons from Zatanna; that refused to _drink their potion_ and _starved_ possessed.

Dick took out a wooden stake from his pocket.

That got the kid’s attention.

“You will take your potion,” Dick said calmly, using his other hand to pluck a flask from the drawer and toss it onto the blanket in front of him, “or I will stake you through the hand.”

Jason narrowed his eyes at him. He scoffed, turning away—and so Dick drove the stake through the back of his right hand and pinned him to the cot.

“ _FUCK_ ,” Jason yelled, jerking back instinctively and cursing when the stake held. The area around the wound was already bleeding a sickly purplish black. Holly wood, of course, which was poisonous to vampires as long it was lodged in their flesh. “What the _fuck_ , Dick?”

“Take your potion,” Dick said.

“You stabbed my hand!”

“Take your potion.”

“You _stabbed my hand!_ ”

“Clearly playing Mister Nice Guy’s not working,” Dick said in a calm voice. “And when it’s a choice between letting you starve yourself out of self-pity or inflicting bodily harm to kick your ass into gear, then I choose bodily harm. Now _take your goddamn potion_.”

Jason, clearly a rebel, looked down at the stake. He looked back up at Dick. “Or what?”

“Or I’ll keep staking you,” Dick waved his hand and spelled a second stake from his pocket dimensional inventory. Jason’s eyes widened. “You’ve got three more limbs and a vampire’s healing factor, and Zatanna’s handling all my classes for the day. So I’ve got time.”

He smiled with all his teeth, and Jason looked at him was a mix of awe, sullenness, and fear. Scowling, the boy uncapped the flask and downed the brownish insides as Dick watched him like a hawk.

“I hate you,” he snarled and threw the empty glass to the floor. Dick waved a hand and stopped its descent before it shattered. “Why can’t you all leave me alone?”

“Because we care about you, Jay,” Dick said. He set the empty flask on the bed stand. “And because there’s so much more for you to live. If you think I’m going to let you squander the second chance you’ve been given, then you’re sorely mistaken.”

“Second chance? I’m _dead_!”

“Don’t seem very dead to me,” Dick said. Jason yelped when Dick leaned over and gracelessly yanked the stake out of his hand. “I’m pretty sure the dead can’t bitch as much as you do.”

“I don’t bitch!”

Dick didn’t respond. He just tossed the stake into the trash and walked right out of the infirmary, leaving Jason fuming to himself in his bed.

 

\--

 

Bruce came back on a Wednesday. Dick socked him in the jaw and slammed the door to his quarters. The man didn't even try to defend himself, which was less satisfying than he'd expected.

 

\--

 

“No.”

“Dick.”

“ _No_ ,” and years of Professor-ing had clearly paid off, because Dick’s glare was scary enough that half the Justice League took a step back. “Jason doesn’t need to deal with all this until you guys figure out what you're going to do with him. He’s not a lab rat and he’s not a freak show, and _Bruce,_ you _can’t_.”

“I thought you wanted me to talk to him,” Bruce said, face sullen even half hidden under his cowl.

Dick whirled around and jabbed him hard in the chest. “I want you to be strong, Bruce! And the first thing you can do is reassure him he’s not going to be locked up for the rest of his life.”

“Uh,” Clark interjected awkwardly—which was as auspicious a start to their JLA meeting as any.

“Leaving a fake Robin gave Morgana time to place an incurable curse in the real Robin’s system—one not even Dick could destroy,” the Arthurian wizard began, determined to hit the ground running. “But for what? To exchange him for Bruce?”

“Well, we all know Morgana’s M.O., don’t we?” Flash crossed his arms. “Girl loves her mind-control. So isn’t it possible the curse was supposed to turn the kid into a—a puppet or something? I mean, c’mon, it’s a win-win. Bats exchanges himself for Robin’s cure, Morgana gets both Bats _and_ a mole on the inside. Bats doesn’t exchange himself, she cures Robin herself and uses his puppeted self to torture us with.” He shrugged when the other Leaguers gave him a look. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“It does sound like Talia,” Bruce finally spoke up, voice flat. “Though it remains to be seen if this supposed curse lasted through the conversion. From what Dick and Miss Brown have observed, the curse seems to be gone.”

“We still have to be careful,” Clark said. “Until we can investigate the situation further, we should bring Jason back to the Watchtower and keep him under supervision.”

“No,” Bruce said immediately.

“I know it’s hard—”

“ _No_ ,” Bruce repeated, sitting up in his chair. “We can handle Jason on our own. We don’t need League supervision.”

“The moment Morgana showed her face, the League got involved,” Diana snapped. “We can’t risk Robin being a potential mole…”

“If he’s a mole, keeping him at the Watchtower is even more dangerous than keeping him with us,” Bruce said flatly. “None of you are qualified to look after him.”

“ _Excuse me_ ,” Diana said, affronted, which was Dick finally decided to step in.

“We’re all competent heroes with our own strengths and weaknesses, and no one is suggesting anyone isn’t qualified,” Dick overrode her next scathing comment. He turned to Clark. “Merlin, what did I _just_ say about locking a sixteen-year-old up? Jay’s one of us no matter his species. We take care of our own.”

“Excalibur,” Clark said.

“Don’t call me that.”

“ _Dick_ ,” he amended.

Dick ignored him, “And even if Jason has the chance to turn against us, he’s still _Jason_. It’s not all or nothing. He can still live his life and be under supervision at the same time.”

“Oh?” Diana raised a brow. “And how is that?”

“He can stay at Hogwarts,” Dick said calmly, and pretended he didn’t see Bruce stiffen beside him. Served Bruce right for going AWOL for so long—Dick had had more than enough time to get all the paperwork in order. “With me.”

“Shots fired,” Clark muttered under his breath just as the table burst into commotion.

 

\--

 

(Dick approached Nabu after the meeting adjourned, mostly because the Light God refused to leave. He loomed imposingly in a corner instead, a silent sun that knew that others will always come to him.

“You should have let him die,” Nabu said.

Dick said nothing.

“He is destined to betray the king. He is destined to let the Dark in with the choices he makes. At the very least, Merlin’s suggestion to lock him away would have been a better option.”

“Jay’s a good kid,” Dick said lowly. “Doesn’t he deserve a chance to prove himself?”

Nabu simply floated upwards, glowing brilliantly. “Your faith in this human ability to… change fate continues to allude me, brother. Converting the boy may have stopped the curse in its tracks, but vampires are dark creatures by nature. You have simply made it easier for him to turn.”

“Then I suppose you’ll keep an eye on him, too,” Dick said. “Me? I’ve got better things to do.”

“What better cause is there than to serve the Light?”

“Being there for Jay,” Dick said shortly, turning his back. The image of Zatanna curled up in a ball flashed across his mind’s eye. “Because that’s what family does.”

Nabu didn’t respond. When Dick glanced over his shoulder, the god was gone.)

 

\--

 

“Don’t you fucking leave again,” Jason snarled, clinging tightly to the Bruce's shirt and pressing his face to his chest. “I’m still pissed at you, but if you leave me again I will hate you forever.”

“I won’t,” Bruce said. “I’m staying here with you, for as long as you need.”

“Staying _here_?” Jason looked up, instantly suspicious. “What do mean _staying here?_ ”

"I'm going," Dick called out, and was halfway down the hall when the shouting really began.

 

\--

 

“This is Bruce Wayne, chief executive of Wayne Enterprises,” Dick formally introduced him to his students once he resumed teaching. Bruce looked striking in business casual, even more so next to the old-fashioned robe and tie get-up the students and even the professors were forced to wear. Dick would kill for some pants. “He will be staying at Hogwarts as a guest speaker and collaborative liaison from the American Establishment. His stay is in part due to his son’s… condition, which I’m sure you’ve all heard of. I expect you all to behave.”

“ _Bruce Wayne_ is here?” The whispers started immediately. “How the hell did we get _that_ guest speaker?”

“First, he’ll demonstrate some of the newest WE Tech,” Dick gave Bruce a look, and the man just raised an eyebrow at him. “Tech he hasn’t prepped me on. I’m sure it’ll be worth the secrecy, Mr. Wayne?”

“Please,” and that was Brucie smile right there. Dick narrowed his eyes. “As I’ve said before, call me Bruce.”

Dick swore he heard some of the students in the back _squee_.

”Jason Peter Todd. A very special case, being converted from Muggle to Being, but Hogwarts has always prided itself in being adaptable,” Headmaster Longbottom rambled on once Dick and Bruce had successfully dragged Jason to his office after lunch. “Now, we’d normally place you by age, and we’d still like you to make friends with your peers in Sixth-year—but I think a private tutor would do wonders, yes, to help your… transition. Zatanna's been doing a splendid job, lovely girl...”

Dick gently pushed Jason forward when the boy stayed rooted to the ground, mouth set in a stubborn scowl. The office was vampire-proofed, and so Jason reluctantly took off the red hood he’d been wearing to keep out the sun. Underneath, the boy looked like he’d been run over by a car.

(Apparently he’d spent the whole morning annoying Lavender by constantly flipping through the channels with his new handy-dandy vampire powers. It was either let Jason out of bed or smother him with a pillow, and Dick wasn’t letting all their hard work go to waste.)

“I ain’t going to school here,” he said stubbornly.

“Yes you are,” Bruce overrode him. “At least until you get a handle of your new powers.”

“I can do that with Zatanna!”

“Zatanna has class.”

“Well Dick—”

“Also has class. This is the best way...”

"Dick can speak for himself," Dick snapped at Bruce, who shut up and actually _looked_ at him for once. Too little, too late. "Jason, it's either here or the Watchtower cells. The League's not comfortable letting you run loose. Now go and put on the hat."

Jason glanced over at the ragged Sorting Hat in front of Headmaster Longbottom’s stool. “ _Why_.”

“You need to get Sorted,” Dick answered before turning to the headmaster. “Perhaps we can go over the details when Jason’s more recovered. It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only _one_ ,” Jason complained. “And what do you mean _Sorted_?”

For someone who had no concept of Hogwarts Houses at all, he seemed incredibly put out when the hat blared: "GRYFFINDOR!"

“I told it I wanted to be in Slytherin,” Jason bitched to Dick once he tore off the hat and hopped off the stool. “I mean, _you’re_ in Slytherin. Slytherin have, like, snakes. Snakes have fangs. I have fangs.”

“Lions have fangs. Well... they've got shiny teeth. Though the Slytherins do sleep in the dungeons,” Dick conceded. “So yes, it is pretty dark and vampire-like.”

“Just because you’re a vampire doesn’t mean you have to start walking and talking its aesthetic,” Bruce said, and Jason actually rolled his eyes at him.

“Says the guy who puts bats on _everything,_ seriously, you even have a _Batspresso_ machine—”

"Batspresso," Dick repeated.

“Neville,” Bruce interjected before he got the third degree from both sides, turning to the Headmaster. “I’d like to sort out our accommodations. I assume we’ll be staying in a more long-term residence with Jason’s attendance?”

The Headmaster smiled and turned to give Dick a look, who returned it with a suspicious scowl.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” Dick said.

 

\--

 

He didn’t like it.

Taking all the wins he could get, Dick immediately banished Bruce to the ratty old couch with the mortifying but mostly gone come stain. Jason got the nice guest room next to his own bedroom.

“It’s bigger on the inside,” Dick explained, flinging the door open and gesturing at the impossible interior space. “I’m a right Doctor, am I?”

“What does that have to do with doctors?” Jason frowned at him, confused, and Dick wondered when he’d become so very un-American.

“Dick,” Bruce called out while typing into his laptop on the couch.

Dick ignored him and wandered into the kitchen. When he returned a few minutes later with a steaming mug in hand, Bruce had turned to face the kitchen archway like that wasn’t a creepy thing to do.

“Tell me you have spare blankets,” Bruce said.

Dick slurped at his hot cocoa and waited. The man looked completely discomfited by Dick’s refusal to accommodate his poor speaking skills, enough that he actually shut his laptop and regarded him with assessing eyes. It had always sent chills down Dick’s spine when Bruce turned that legendary detective gaze onto him, and this was no different. Still, he wasn’t going to back down.

“…please,” Bruce tacked on grudgingly.

“No,” Dick shot him down. He finished his cocoa and slammed the empty mug on the coffee table. “Transfigure your own.”

This earned him a low growl, but Dick was out of fucks to give. He flounced off to his bedroom and slammed the door shut, because he wanted Bruce to realize he was being punished. From chasing the man with blue rose bushes as a kid to camping out in the Watchtower for a month as a teen, Dick wasn’t really big on subtlety.

Bruce had left. He’d _left_ when Dick had specifically asked him not to; had left Jason in Dick’s care like the teenager gave a damn about the Robin That Was; had even refused to come back when Dick went out of his way to track him to Wales. He'd compartmentalized until the greatest crises were over, and with Jason tentatively settled and Bruce back... well. 

“Dick,” the man eventually called out from the other side of the door. Bruce never approached him like this in the middle of a spat; it was always Dick who wandered back first. Still, he wasn’t in the mood. He clicked his pen and began furiously grading papers until soft footfalls signaled Bruce’s return to the couch.

 

\--

 

Jason _hated_ Hogwarts.

The food-he-didn’t-need sucked ass, everyone acted like they were in the nineteenth century and not the twenty-first, and he didn’t know what was going on. _Ever_. That, and Dick and Bruce were apparently fighting or something, which just made everything so much worse.

Jason wouldn’t have expected it, but Dick on a pissy rampage was a force to be reckoned with. That, and Bruce actually seemed… affected by his anger. When Jason stomped to his room in a huff, Bruce just left him to it. When _Dick_ stomped off, Bruce set his jaw and dove into his work as a distraction. And then Jason would have to sneak out to the library just so he could _breathe_.

“Look, it’s the vampire,” some of the other students whispered from behind the bookcases, seemingly unaware of Jason’s enhanced hearing. He ignored them and searched for the only positive thing to come out of being sorted into the Brave and Stupid: Kara, fellow Gryffin-Dork and Superman’s cousin.

“You could always move to Gryffindor Tower,” the Arthurian witch said when he dropped his backpack onto the table and slumped into the chair beside her. Despite having his face hidden, Kara could always suss out his mood. “Get to know the other boys better. Get away from your family for a bit.”

“Yeah, and have to wear this get-up twenty-four seven,” Jason snarked, extending his hands and glaring at the leather gloves, the long-sleeved tan jacket, the garish red helmet snapped firmly over his head. “No thanks.”

“Making friends with other Gryffindors will definitely help your schoolwork.”

“That,” Jason said while digging out a musty textbook and dropping it onto the table, “is what I have _you_ for.”

“Honestly,” she sighed, but agreeably leaned over and began explaining Potion theories to him in a calm, patient voice.

Zatanna tutored them both after lunch, and it was nice to have someone else by his side who had no fucking idea what was going on. Really encouraged solidarity. That, and Kara was honest and hardworking and straightforward with him: not cold and standoffish like his peers, awkward and guilty like Bruce, or alternatively affectionate and tense like Dick. It was refreshing.

“You ever pissed that Merlin left you here,” Jason said. The sunlight streaming through the windows was rapidly fading, and soon he could pop off his helmet and take a welcome breath of fresh air. “Y’know. Alone and without him.”

“It’s frustrating, yes, but it’s nice to be able to figure out who I am without being in his shadow,” Kara conceded. “The world’s just so different now. Magic’s different. The Round Table’s different, and everything’s just turned upside-down.”

“Yeah,” Jason lowered his chin. “Yeah, I get where you’re coming from.”

“Excalibur,” Kara suddenly said, turning, and Jason looked up in time to see Dick striding towards their table. The witch had an uncanny ability to tell whenever Dick was close. She waved and said, “Hey. As modern people say: what’s up?”

“Hey Kara,” Dick acknowledged her with a tilt of his head. “Can I talk to Jason alone for a bit?”

“No,” Jason said immediately, but Kara was an awful traitor and flounced off before he could stop her. He glared at Dick. “Go hiss at Bruce some more and leave me alone.”

“I’m not _hissing_ at Bruce.”

“Uh-huh.”

“He broke a promise,” Dick said. “And he needs to learn he can’t just do that without consequences.”

“He’s _Bruce Wayne_. Rich assholes get away with that shit all the time.”

“Not with me,” Dick said, and then shook his head when he realized he was off-topic. He sat down beside Jason, who just slumped further down in his chair. “Jason, Headmaster Longbottom just told me he’s had word from one of his vampire contacts from the continent. He’ll be coming to visit in a few days—”

“No,” Jason said.

“—and I think it’ll be helpful for you to meet them.”

“I’m not _one of them_ ,” Jason hissed, and Dick had the gall to simply roll his eyes.

“How about this,” the former Robin leaned over the table. “You go see the nice vampire just to say thanks for visiting, and I’ll let you patrol with me tonight.”

Jason perked up at once. “Wait, you _patrol_?”

“You can’t take the Robin out of a boy,” Dick grinned, and Jason couldn’t pack his bag fast enough.

 

\--

 

Bludhaven was just what Jason needed: full of shitty, morally deplorable wizards who made it a game to pick on muggles already disadvantaged by a government who still denied that magic exited.

“I could have made that jump!” he whined when Dick yanked him back by the collar. The man ignored him and flung up a _Protego_ spell when the asshole of the week began to randomly cast _Stupefy_ ’s. “Oh _shit—”_

“You’re still adjusting to your new body,” Dick said once he popped back up and brushed the dust off his skintight bodysuit. He'd hog-tied the wizard below to a flagpole. “Part of combat is being in-tune with your body, knowing exactly how it works and how it moves. Knowing where the weak points are and how to defend them. You’re not human anymore, Jay. You’ve got a whole ‘nother set of weaknesses.”

“Rub it in why don’t you,” Jason said dourly.

“You’re more impervious to spells,” Dick ignored him. “Those stunning curses almost bounced right off of you. But you’re sensitive to sunlight or anything resembling sunlight, and woods like holly and apple can slow you down.”

“This isn't class, Professor,” Jason snarled, and then leapt off the building before Dick could open his mouth.

For all he complained about Gotham and in its many, many issues regarding magical status, class and ethnicity, Bludhaven was so much worse. The muggles didn’t have any protection. No ward stones, no attempts to bridge the gap between the muggle and magical, and no one willing to dish out any form of punishment to trangressors. They treated muggles like _rats_ , and it pissed him off enough that... _things_ started to happen.

“What the fuck is _wrong_ with you,” he howled, kicking a middle-aged witch in the face. The woman screeched in pain and tossed some dark spell at him in retaliation, and while it hurt like a motherfucker, it didn't incapacitate him. He whirled on her and watched, surprised, when something flung her into the air and right into a tree.

“Ja—Robin!” Dick called out, tying up the witch's two henchmen. “Keep a lid on your magic!”

“For the last time,” Jason snarled, and Dick let out a startled yelp when the two henchmen were yanked up by the same invisible force. It swung them around and around and then tossed them onto the dazed witch in the tree, and all three of them fell screaming onto the ground. He rounded on Dick, “I don’t have _magic_!”

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing hooted pointedly and landed on Jason’s shoulder.

“We'll talk about this later,” Dick snapped before apparating over to the tree to round up the perps.

“I don’t,” Jason muttered to Nightwing. The owl spread open its wings and did the approximate equivalent of an owl-yawn. “I just… it’s not _me._ Using magic is cheating.”

Nightwing trilled like it was laughing at him, and Jason hissed at it.

Still, rather than flutter about Dick’s head and annoy the crap out of the wizarding bullies prowling the streets, Nightwing took to flying beside Jason instead. It made no sense, but Jason felt more controlled with the owl by his side. Clearer and more focused.

No more strange bursts of vampiric magic, no more irrational outbursts of emotion. By the time Dick side-apparated him back to Hogsmeade and treated him to a pint of butterbeer, Jason was happier than he’d ever been since stepping foot on this soggy island.

 

\--

 

(“You _took him out on patrol?”_ Bruce roared. Something crashed against the wall. “He’s not ready! That was reckless and unacceptable, and you should have asked me because I’m his _guardian_ —”

“He’s been bored out of his mind for weeks, and you’re going to take away the one familiar thing he has from Gotham? What the hell is wrong with you!”

“Well at least they’re fighting out loud,” Jason whispered to Nightwing, who was curled up like a fluffy black poofball on his bed. He finished signing the letter he’d painstakingly been working on the last few weeks and sealed it shut with a sticker Kara had given him. Kara had a bottomless pit of cute sticker sheets that Jason loved. Not that he’d tell her that. “Who knows, maybe they’ll finally kill each other and I’ll have the whole apartment to myself.”

“Jason is not a pawn to be used in our argument—”

“ _I’m_ using Jason as a pawn? Seriously, Bruce? Fucking off for days on end for ‘the greater good,’ and that doesn’t ring any bells? Jason’s not me! He’s his own person, and it’s not fair for you to take your anger out on him—”

“I’ve never done that!”

Jason poked Nightwing with the letter. Nightwing blinked at him.

“You’re an owl, aren’t you?” he told it when it just sat there sleepily, like it had nothing better to do than nap. “Can you send that letter?”

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing said. It didn’t move.

Jason sighed and rummaged around the room for the near-empty packet of owl treats he’d stolen from one of his classmates’ bags. Not exactly model behavior, but the boy had made several jabs at his muggle-ness and his vampire-ness and totally deserved it.

“Two now,” he said, feeding the owl the treats. “And two when you get back. Now _go_.”

The owl hooted and flew out of the owl exit near the ceiling. Jason lifted the blinds and watched its silhouette disappear into the slowly brightening horizon.

He winced once the faint sunlight began to burn and shut the blinds with a click, just in time to hear something else shatter against the wall. Angry footfalls signaled someone stomping out the apartment altogether.

Dick, probably.

By the time Jason crawled out of his room and uncapped his daily blood potion, Bruce was banging out angry emails to some unfortunate executive in Wayne Enterprise’s London branch.

“You’re late for Herbology,” the man said in a flat voice, not even deeming Jason important enough to look at.

Jason rolled his eyes and went to fetch his bag. It was going to be _that_ kind of day.)

 

\--

 

Vasile the Vampire was gaunt, pale, and had startling red eyes.

“Woah,” Jason muttered, feeling the absurd urge to step behind Dick. He didn’t need Dick Perfectson to protect him with the evil-looking anorexic with sharp pointy teeth.

“It’s very rare to see a human convert,” the vampire drifted over—literally. He was floating at least three inches off the floor. He whirled around Jason like he was an especially interesting specimen, which Jason took great offense to. “Though with a bit of training, you’ll be able to harness your powers like any natural-born vampire.”

“Don’t want to,” Jason blurted out. Dick elbowed him. “I mean, uh…”

“You still need to take your first blood to use the full breadth of your power,” Vasile said. “What have you been consuming?”

“Potions?”

“Like stale water,” Vasile made a face. “No, no. Fresh is far better. No wonder your eyes are still blue.”

“Wait, wait,” Jason gave up all bravado and stepped behind Dick, who was far more likely to hold off the vampire with all his… Professor-ness. “You want me—you—you want me to drink _blood_?”

“Of course. Vitality is an important source of energy for our magic. And don’t look so horrified, boy. Humans love their stories, but vampires only need a few mouthfuls of blood to operate at their full potential.”

“ _Mouthfuls of blood_ ,” Jason said, which was when Dick finally stepped in.

“Vasile, we were hoping to help Jason integrate into _wizarding_ society,” he said. “He's been a muggle his entire life with limited access to wizards; transitioning to magic is already enough of a struggle, much less going from muggle to vampire.”

Vasile cocked his head. “A vampire trapped in the world of wizards is a vampire chained. He'll never reach his full potential here. No, he deserves to join his brethren. My clan in Romania can always use younger blood.”

“No,” Dick cut him off.

“You insist on crippling this boy?” the vampire’s eyes flashed dark red. “You wizards never cease to disappoint me.”

“It’s not about crippling him. It’s about what Jason wants,” Dick said. “He needs his family. I… understand you came all this way, but we would appreciate it greatly if you could help Jason here. At Hogwarts.”

The vampire snarled at him, frightening fangs exposed, but Dick didn’t back down.

“Please,” Dick said.

The vampire glared down at him before drifting up into the air. He swirled a bit, all dark grace and pale beauty, and then landed before the two of them. It was the first time his feet touched the floor since they’d been introduced.

“Fine,” Vasile said. “Headmaster Longbottom had already briefed me on your request, but I had hoped to convince you otherwise. Still, every moment away from my clan is a risk. I can stay a day. No more, no less. And I have a request of my own.”

“You can’t—” Jason hissed and harrumphed angrily when Dick stepped on his foot.

“I have tasted your magic since walking into this room,” Vasile stalked around Dick. Less like a specimen to be examined, and more like prey. “It’s brilliant. It’s bright. One mouthful of your blood would grant enough energy to last an old vampire like me for months.”

“Woah,” Jason interrupted again. Dick stepped on his other foot. “Ow! Stop that!”

“One mouthful and you’ll teach Jason for a day,” Dick clarified. Vasile inclined his head in agreement. Dick took a breath: “Okay.”

“How do you know he’s not gonna just _suck you dry_ ,” Jason grabbed Dick’s arm. “Dick!”

“Aw, I didn’t know you cared Little Wing,” Dick had the nerve to grin at him.

“It’s not that! If you died Bruce would _never forgive me_ —“

“One mouthful, little brother,” Vasile rolled his blood-red eyes. “Do not fear.”

“Yeah, no fear,” Jason muttered. He stood trembling as Vasile approached the former Robin, drifting close enough for their breaths to mix. It was terrifyingly intimate, and Jason had the insane urge to claw the guy’s face off. Especially when he tipped Dick’s head back and bared his fangs along the delicate skin of his jugular.

And then he sank those fangs into his flesh and pressed his mouth to the wound and—

The worst part was, Jason’s mouth _watered_. The smell of fresh blood, of _Dick’s_ blood given freely, stirred something dark inside his heart. He hadn’t realized what the slushy potions were missing: that ‘vitality’ Vasile spoke of. The depths to which his body betrayed him was horrifying.

Which was probably why he failed to react in time when Bruce stepped into the room to check up on Jason.

“ _DICK!_ ” Bruce shouted in horror. Fear and anger warred on his face at the sight of, you know. Dick limp in the vampiriest vampire’s arms.

“Oh fuck,” Jason said, and then all hell broke loose.

 

\--

 

“We agreed on it, why can’t you admit it and apologize,” Dick told Bruce lowly as he tapped his wand along the many scrapes and bruises covering his body. Bruce just set his jaw. “He wasn’t _attacking_ me.”

“He was drinking your blood.”

“As per our agreement!"

“It is fine, Light one,” Vasile phased up through the floor. His eyes were sparkling red, so bright they almost glowed. Vitality personified, yes, even when he was dripping dark oily blood into his robe. Bruce could deflect vampire magic as well as a wizard’s, and the vampire had suffered great injury before realizing physical attacks were the way to go. “So this is the mighty Arthur. Strong. Protective. Horribly human.”

“And you are,” Bruce said stiffly.

“Vasile,” the vampire answered. “I am no threat to you, king. In fact, under these dark times you can say we are… allies.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes.

“Morgana has enslaved many of the clans in northern Europe,” Vasile said. He glanced back at Jason, who was awkwardly standing behind Bruce and putting his hands on his shoulder. “It is why I cannot leave for long. But I will help this young one for a day, as agreed.” He put a hand on a blooming black spot on his robe and winced. “I won’t even ask for reparations.”

“ _Oh-_ kay,” Dick pulled Bruce back before he could, you know. Start brawling again. “Thank you, Vasile. And sorry for the misunderstanding. When are you going to begin teaching?”

“Now.”

“ _Now?_ ” Jason yelped.

“And that’s our cue to leave,” Dick pressed one last _Episkey_ to Bruce’s neck and stood up. “Good luck, Jay, see you tonight, bye.”

He ignored Jason's protests and dragged Bruce out the door. 

“Your neck,” Bruce growled halfway up to Dick’s quarters. He pressed a thumb to the angry red puncture marks there. “He could’ve hurt you.”

“Then I would have sliced him into a thousand pieces,” Dick snapped, jerking out of his touch. “I’m not some damsel you need to save.”

“Of course not.”

“Then stop acting like it!”

“It’s not about you being weak,” Bruce tried, clearly frustrated at his inability to say the right thing when it mattered. Dick rolled his eyes and dropped B like a sack of potatoes when they made it back to his apartment. “I… worry.”

Despite his best efforts to stay pissed, Dick softened a fraction.

“I know, B,” he turned back to where Bruce lay on the couch. They fought so often it was always a surprise when they fell into these kind of moments. When he could just lean over and press his mouth to his forehead like he did this every day. He drew back and saw Bruce staring inscrutably up at him. “…but you’re still sleeping on the couch.”

Bruce Batglared him and fell back onto a ratty couch arm, and Dick squirreled himself away in his bedroom.

After the day he had, he deserved to take a nice, long nap.

 

\--

 

(Jason didn't go into detail on what Vasile had taught him, not even when he trudged back home just to find Bruce ready to interrogate him.

Dick, who had stirred awake enough to heat up some ramen for dinner—not that he couldn’t go to the kitchens to grab some leftovers, but that meant _leaving—_ perched on a seat and generally ignored the exchange.

“He just taught me a few tricks,” Jason shrugged when Bruce prodded. “I mean, there are some differences between vampires and wizards. Some things that Zatanna wasn’t able to really… put into words. But my control’s better, and the guy kind of… hypnotized me?”

“He _what_ ,” Bruce said.

“No, no, I meant he kind of implanted a list of rules and facts in my head,” Jason winced at how that sounded. “Like, uh. Downloading an e-book into an e-reader.”

“How do we know he hasn’t added some kind of subconscious programming?”

“Bruce,” Jason said.

“He could be using you as a mole.”

“ _Bruce_!”

“We’ll just get one of the Leaguers to vet him,” Dick finished slurping up his noodles and dumped the toxic mix of soup and powder into the sink. “So stop worrying about it, B."

"I don't trust him," Bruce said, like he ever really trusted anyone around him ever. Jason made his escape before the two could begin arguing again _—_ though Dick looked sleepy enough to spare Jason the shouting for a night _—_ and quickly closed the door to his room.

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing called out expectantly from his bed. Jason startled and glanced down at the blue-eyed featherball.

"You really want those treats, huh?" he said, extending a hand. With a deep breath and a little furrow of his brow, he imagined an extra set of ghostly hands coming into being in front of him. He used them to reach into the cabinet and withdraw the owl treats, and Nightwing hooted like it was cheering him on. He dropped the treats on to the bed with a triumphant grin.

Beaming with pride, he flopped down beside the bird. His magic was still unwieldy and clumsy, yes, but for once he felt like it was... controllable. Like one day, when he mastered it completely, he'll never fall prey to his body again.)

 

\--

 

"Goodnight," Dick said, shutting off the living room light. Bruce didn't respond. He lay on the couch with his usually impeccable hair mussed and sticking right up _—_ and Dick had to resist the urge to run his hands through it.

He felt tired. Not just literally, but spiritually. It was a sobering realization because it meant one of them had to give soon _—_ and Dick wondered if it was going to have to be him. Again.

 

\--

 

Dick stirred awake when he felt his bed dip sometime in the middle of the night.

“No,” he mumbled blearily, throwing out a hand at the intruder. “Go ‘way.”

“Dick, I’ve put up with that couch for two weeks. It needs to be examined back at the cave,” Bruce's low voice washed over him. Dick snuffled into his pillow and rolled over. “After days of analysis, I believe it has been cursed."

“Bruce, shut _up_ ,” Dick whined. He pulled his covers over his head. “Go to sleep like a normal person.”

“The couch…”

“…isn’t _cursed_ , you paranoid bastard,” Dick said. “Just uncomfortable. Which is why Jason got the guest bed and you got the couch. It’s a punishment for a reason.”

Bruce was silent for so long Dick almost fell asleep again, until he said: “How.”

“How _what._ ”

“How can I make it up to you, Dick,” Bruce said. In a softer voice, he said, “I don’t know… I’ve been trying…” A pause to collect his thoughts. “What do you want?”

Dick growled and finally opened his eyes. He propped his head up on an arm and glanced up at this ridiculous man he loved and hated in equal measure, who could do something both insulting and endearing like _defending his honor_. He _was_ trying, though. He’ll give him that.

“I want you to prove yourself worthy,” Dick said in an even voice.

Bruce furrowed his brow. “I’ve already done that.”

“Worthy to wield me,” Dick said. He forced himself to keep looking him in the eye. “But not yet worthy to love me.”

“ _How_ ,” Bruce demanded, but Dick was done. He settled back down on his pillow and closed his eyes. He took several meditative breaths in preparation for Bruce’s inevitable departure back to the Cursed Couch—and practically jumped out of his skin when he felt a large hand card through his hair.

Bruce brushed Dick’s hair back again, his gestures surprisingly gentle, and Dick… Dick melted into his touch. He sighed pleasantly and stretched out like a cat—and Bruce surprised Dick once more by slipping into bed beside him.

Dick wasn’t even sure if Bruce had gotten into bed with him _ever_. It’d always been the other way around.

“Bruce,” he said questioningly. The older man kept stroking his hair, his hand moving down the back of his neck and settling warm and solid between his shoulder-blades. Dick shivered. This was—what was Bruce _doing_?

“B?” he said again, voice small. He put his hand on Bruce’s neck in an unsubtle bid to check his temperature. “You feeling okay?”

“I told you,” Bruce’s voice was infuriatingly calm. He even leaned into Dick’s touch, which was another first. It was enough for Dick to finally, _finally_ hear the minute shakiness in Bruce’s voice, which in retrospect had been there since he’d first invaded his room. Was he—was he _scared?_ “Your couch is cursed.”

“Stop blaming the couch,” Dick hissed. “It’s not the couch.”

“I’ve already sent a sample to Alfred.”

“You _mutilated_ my couch?”

“Dick,” Bruce chided him, and the younger man fell into a suspicious silence. “You set your demands. I respect them. All I can promise is…”

A beat, and then Bruce tugged him closer. Dick went willingly, snuffling into the crook of his neck because he was tired and Bruce was warm and he’d used up his quota of self-control for the night. Bruce held him like he was going to lose him, and Dick felt a flash of guilt. Of course seeing Vasile drinking his blood would scare him.

After almost losing Jason, losing Dick would’ve been a nightmare come true.

“I’ll try,” the man eventually said in a quiet, solemn voice. He pressed his mouth to Dick’s temple. “I’ll try.”

“Mm’kay,” Dick let his eyes flutter closed. He sighed against Bruce’s cheek and wondered who was going to be the first to freak out the next morning. “’S all I ask for, B. For you to… for you to _stay_.”

Bruce’s grip around him tightened almost possessively, and Dick was too tired to care. He liked it. But just because he liked it didn’t mean all was forgiven. He’d been completely serious when he told Bruce he needed to prove himself worthy.

Worthy as more than a mentor, partner, king.

Worthy enough to be his lover.

 

\--

 

He kicked Bruce out of bed in the early hours of the morning, because he certainly didn’t want Jason to ask where Bruce had stayed the night.

Bruce bore the brunt of it all with surprising grace.

“Why is there a stain on your couch,” he asked when Dick finally dragged himself out of his room an hour later. Given that the stain had been there since the beginning, Dick could only conclude that Bruce had spent the entire hour staring intently at the upholstery. “It’s not food.”

“No, that’s a come stain,” Dick said with a yawn before freezing—and it wasn’t clear who was mortified more at his inappropriate admission. Thankfully, Jason soon trudged out of the guest room with his hair half-flattened on one side and Dick descended on him with fervor.

It took him at least a day to notice the stain was gone.

One side of his mouth quirked up into a half-smile. Of course Bruce would waste his limited magic on wiping away odd stains instead of, you know. Transfiguring more blankets.

Dick gave him a pillow that night and locked his door when he went to bed. He breathed with cautious optimism.

Maybe—just _maybe_ —things were going to be okay.

 

\--

 

(“Wait, so it took a vampire biting your neck to get you two talking again,” Jason yawned, uncapping his blood potion and downing it before awareness could remind him just how nasty it was. “Dude, _I_ could’ve done that.”

“Jason, how many times have I told you not to eat my cereal,” Dick called out, head stuck in the pantry.

“It wasn’t me!”

“Well it’s not _Bruce_ , he hates Lucky Charms—”

Bruce sighed heavily, like the two boys squabbling over cereal was like the worst thing ever. But then Dick returned from the pantry with a bowl of cereal in hand and plopped beside Bruce like it was no big deal, and Bruce's stony gaze softened. Just a little. Jason narrowed his eyes when Dick reached over and pushed Bruce’s fingers out the way to type something onto his tablet.

“Personal space,” Bruce chided him, to no avail.

“You guys are acting weird,” Jason said, and the way Dick just grinned at him was as good an admission as any.

Yeah, okay. He didn't want to know.)

 

\--

 

Jason floated across the snowy school grounds, hood off and wind whipping about his hair. The moon was big and bright. Perfect time to practice his powers.

“Jason!”

He turned around and saw Kara flying up behind him. The girl was dressed in a heavy jacket and red-and-blue earmuffs.

“You can fly?” she said, whirling around him. “Did the vampire teach you that?”

“Kind of,” Jason hedged. "It's more like lightly levitating. Nothing like what you do."

“How long can you keep it up? Ten, fifteen minutes?”

“Sure,” Jason said—which was all the warning he got before she darted across the Great Lake. He cursed and tried chasing after her, which was an impossibility from the start. Kara even boomeranged back and lapped him, the jerk, and then spun into the sky with a whoop.

“Oh, how marvelous to have a flight mate again,” she beamed when Jason finally made it to the center of the lake. “It’s so… strange how the wizards of nowadays can’t harness the Grail’s magic like they used to. They draw from within themselves without realizing that magic… magic comes from outside us.” She swept a hand around. “Cut off now with Camelot gone, but still a reckoning force from beyond.”

“Kara, I’m too tired to deal with this mystic nonsense,” Jason told her, and the girl put her hands on her hips with a huff. “Can’t we just, you know. Fly?”

“Oh, that’s not why I brought you here,” she said. She lifted herself up in the sky and Jason followed her unsteadily. “I wanted to introduce you to my friend!”

And then a huge tentacle shot out of the lake and wrapped around his waist.

“Kara—” he yelped before being finding himself yanked into murky lakewater. Vamps could hold their breath longer than humans, but they still needed to breathe. Before panic could set in for real, he came face-to-face with a huge, yellow eye—which eventually zoomed out to reveal a massive squid-like creature blurbing at him.

“Whaaadafuck,” he managed, and then the tentacle was flinging him back up again. Jason tried to levitate before he fell into the water, but he was too disoriented. Before he could belly flop onto the surface like a dork, a strong arm looped around his waist.

“A little warning would’ve been nice!” he shouted, growling like drowned kitten. Kara laughed. Jason cursed. “Seriously, a gigantic squid thing is your _friend_?”

“He is from my time,” Kara told him, and Jason stopped cursing. Kara’s smile hadn’t wavered, but he knew how much Kara sometimes missed her home. “Though back then, he was just a small little thing. It is… good to see a familiar face here in Hogwarts. Most squids are wary of humans,” she explained when Jason continued to not respond. “But this one—ah, he loved playing with me. So it doesn’t surprise me that he chose to roost in a lake constantly surrounded by people. It’s the perfect home for him.”

“That’s… nice,” Jason finally managed. Kara dropped him onto the snowy shore, and Jason jumped right back up at the sudden cold. The levitation kicked in again and he quickly floated up several feet off, not that it did any good with snow clinging to his soggy clothes.

A sudden warmth fell over him, and he gave Kara a grateful smile for her heating charm.

“Come on,” Kara nudged him. Her blue eyes sparkled. “I want to show you more.”

She led him to the Forbidden Forest. The small tunnels below the castle. The Shrieking Shack that she’d stood guard over for so long, a proper home for a dark creature like a vampire. By the time they returned to the lake, it was well past midnight and Bruce was going to eviscerate him. Still, he… enjoyed the time spent outside.

Perhaps he hadn’t learned more about his vampiric powers, but he did learn more about Kara.

“Why,” he finally managed after Kara unsuccessfully tried to chuck a snowball at his face. Please. Jason was the master of snowball fights, even against someone who could fly faster than even his vampire eyes could see. “Why did Superman seal you away, Kara? Why didn’t you reincarnate with the rest of us?”

Kara stopped giggling.

Jason hunched his shoulders, a backtrack already on the tip of his tongue, because he understood not wanting to talk about things that hurt. Before he could, she floated down so they were face-to-face. Her blue eyes were large and intent in the moonlight.

“We lost the war, Lance,” she said in a soft voice. “We lost, and all we could do was seal Camelot away before the Dark could claim its most guarded treasure.”

"You hid Camelot because of _gold?_ "

Kara rolled her eyes. "Of course not. Camelot was built around one of the most important discoveries in Wizarding history. The birthplace of magic. The Holy Grail."

Jason had only barely studied up on Arthurian myths, and only because it was what B expected of Robin. The Holy Grail? Birthplace of magic? And then Kara suddenly began unzipping her coat and unbuttoning the shirt underneath and he found himself utterly distracted. She ignored his flustering in favor of exposing a strange rune burned onto the skin above her sternum.

“Camelot wouldn’t have been safe on this earthly plane," she said, "It wouldn’t have been safe in _any_ plane, not one that could be accessed through dimensional portals. So Merlin… Clark… created a pocket dimension within Avalon and hid the kingdom away there. Pocket dimensions are magical constructs... realities dependent on an anchor. Small dimensions use magical artifacts. Bigger ones require even more magic, and are often anchored to people. The Watchtower is anchored to Clark. Camelot’s Avalon is anchored to me.”

“So you couldn't be reincarnated?" Jason clarified.

“If my soul crosses the veil, then that pocket dimension will unravel,” Kara said. “And Camelot will be lost forever. Morgana would’ve never actually killed me for this reason. She knows I’m more valuable alive.”

Jason didn’t know what to say. He waited for her to zip up her jacket before gliding back towards the castle. Kara followed.

“Wait,” he suddenly said, whipping his head around to frown at her. “Did you just call me _Lance?”_

“Do you not have dreams?” Kara raised a brow at him.

“I never remember my dreams,” Jason answered—and furrowed his brow when Kara threw back her head and _laughed_.

 

\--

 

He looked after Kara more closely after that. While Kara had the uncanny ability to befriend everyone around her, it wouldn't be school if there weren't sexist assholes.

“Merlin’s beard, Wayne! You could’a seared my hair off!” the latest bully wailed when Jason ‘accidentally’ spilled his cauldron over the boy’s workstation. “What’s wrong with you!”

“My hands slipped,” he told him, and just smiled enigmatically when the Potions Professor took ten points off of Gryffindor. Ironically, their Care for Magical Creatures class required them to chase after lightning-quick snitch birds—and Jason proved exactly how good his reflexes were when he tried.

“You consider joining the Quidditch team?” one boy, red-haired and dark-eyed, approached him once they succeeded in stuffing the squeaking birds back in their cages. “Make up for all the points you’ve lost us in the time you’ve joined us.”

“What’s Quidditch?” Jason responded… not realizing the can of worms he’d opened with that one question.

“No,” Dick said. He was in a green t-shirt and pajama pants and savagely marking his student’s papers in cheery blue. Jason saw him write something that looked suspiciously like _You’re mom is definitely not a unicorn, the chromosomes between a magical human and a horse are so incompatible they would probably explode._ He suppressed a snort. “Why do you need to ride a broom anyway? You can fly.”

“Levitate.”

“Close enough.”

“Well maybe _Zatanna_ will teach me,” Jason declared defiantly. Dick raised an eyebrow at him, and Jason stomped off. To his delight, Zatanna did indeed know a thing or two about flying on a broom. He even shirked patrol for a few days to race Zatanna and Kara across the lake, practicing until he was tentatively assigned as a Gryffindor Chaser.

Bruce nearly had a heart attack.

“You don’t even know how to ride a broom,” his guardian said. Jason, taking a page from Dick’s book, grinned at him with all his teeth. As he had two very sharp, very pointy fangs, he hoped it looked a lot scarier. “Are you sure…”

“Yep.”

“You’ll have to go outside a lot.”

“That’s what the hood’s for, isn’t it?”

Bruce folded his hands and gave Jason a strangely fond look. “Alright, then. You say you can ride, then I trust your judgment. And Jason…” Jason glanced back at him. “I’m… glad to see you having a happier time here. That’s the only thing I wanted for you.”

Jason flushed and gave Bruce a salute. And then he was out the door.

\--

 

Dick was going to stab Bruce in the eye socket.

“Professor,” Brucie Boy sidled up to him after a demonstration of Wayne Tech’s new and improved pensieve projector. Dick narrowed his eyes. There were still students milling about for gods sake, and at least two Ravenclaw girls who were not-so-subtly eavesdropping. “I was wondering if you’d accompany me out for lunch.”

“I’ve got a lunch meeting, Mr. Wayne—”

“Bruce, please.”

“…Bruce, so not today.”

Brucie pounced on the opening at once. “But perhaps tomorrow? One o’ clock after your morning class. I can pick you up.”

He was _so_ getting a wand in the eye socket.

Especially as Dick's cheeks flooded with warmth, because no matter how much his mind knew it was mostly a game, his heart was stupid. And Bruce was looking at him with that earnest, charming grin he usually cast on the various models who hung off his arms at events—with the exception of his eyes, which were frightfully clear.

Of course Bruce would need to hide under his Brucie veneer to do something as simple as _ask him out on a date_.

“Fine,” Dick managed. He ignored the students bursting into giggles and put away the gadgets from class. “But we’re eating in Hogsmeade.”

“There’s a place not too far from here…”

“ _Hogsmeade,_ ” Dick insisted, and jumped when Bruce abandoned his act for one pointed moment to put his hand on Dick’s shoulder. He shivered under its gravitas.

“Hogsmeade,” Bruce promised, and then left the room in a whirl of Brucie grace and spoiled entrepreneur.

They went to Hogsmeade. Bruce bought him two butterbeers when he asked for one, and acted so ridiculously charming that Dick couldn’t help but ham it up right beside him. Which resulted in more than a few rumors about the two of them being drunk, which wasn’t actually the worst gossip to be had.

If things had ended there, it would have been fine. But no. Apparently, being courted by Brucie Wayne meant coy looks during demonstrations, outright flirting and gifts and small touches that were slowly but surely driving Dick up the wall. Their identity issues walked the line of sanity enough as it was. Adding this whole _Which Bruce Am I Dating_ on top of all that was just asking for disaster.

“Why does everyone think you and Bruce are dating?” Jason finally said one afternoon. Dick had returned to his quarters to find the vampire sprawled on the living room floor, watching TV despite it clearly being time for his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Albus had already pulled him aside in concern for Jason’s constant absences, like it was a huge mystery why a vampire refused to attend a class that might as well be named _How to Kill Dark Creatures (Like a Vampire)._

He walked over and prodded the boy’s head with a foot. Jason swatted at him and rolled onto his stomach.

“Because Brucie’s a flirt,” he answered, poking Jason again. He kept poking until Jason reluctantly sat up with a snarl, and Dick plopped himself right down beside him. “You’re up to David Tennant already? How much Doctor Who have you watched?”

“I don’t watch Doctor Who,” Jason lied, clearly absorbed in the riveting tale of enslaved aliens and dumb, ignorant overlords. “And I’m not _dumb_ , Dick. There’s a big difference between flirting and dating. I’ve seen Brucie pull that routine with some Gothamite girls, but I doubt he could pull that off with _you_.”

“There’s got to be a better reason Bruce hasn’t returned to Gotham,” Dick said. “Caring for his adopted son is a bit out of character for playboy Brucie Wayne, but staying because of an overseas fling? That sounds like him, doesn’t it? And it works when I’m in on it.”

Jason leveled him with a flat look like he knew he was lying. Well, he wasn’t _lying_ … just not telling the whole truth. Bruce’s plans always had so many layers, it was almost second nature to lie by omission.

“I want to borrow Nightwing,” Jason finally said.

Dick raised a brow at the change in subject. “You already do that.”

“Yeah, but I want to send something to someone far off, and the postal system here sucks. I don’t know how long he’ll be gone. Could be days.”

“You do know he’s more than a normal owl, right?” Dick tilted his head. Jay’s attachment to his owl wasn’t inexplicable; it had been the only familiar companion he’d had during that week in Talia’s hands. But he felt compelled to stress that he _did_ like having his owl around. “He’s helped me on patrol quite a few times.”

“Then I’ll go on patrol with you while Nightwing’s gone,” Jason declared, folding his arms. “Or I’m going to ask you more questions about B’s… plan.”

“Blackmail, little brother?” Dick threw him a rakish smile. “You wound me.”

“I’m not your little brother,” Jason complained, and squawked in outrage when Dick ruffled his hair. He swiped at him with his extended claws. Dick dodged and managed to wrestle the boy upside-down into the air and tug his t-shirt over his face.

“Dick!” Jason howled, struggling in the air like a flopping fish.

“You want to borrow Nightwing for that long, you get yourself down from there,” Dick told him, and strode guilelessly back to the kitchen to the sounds of Jason’s frustrated expletives. The kid might have been cunning and street smart, but Dick had been trained by the best.

Jason had clearly been raiding his cereal cabinet again, and such audacity could not go unpunished. And with all the grief Bruce had been giving him these last few days, he had to find his fun somewhere.

 

\--

 

Dick blamed it on being distracted by planning, giving out and grading finals; in trying to teach over his students’ increasing holiday cheer; and also on Brucie Fucking Wayne’s unreadable strategy to mess with Dick’s head; because he wasn’t usually caught so off-guard. Not even from the Batman.

“What is this?” Dick blinked when he strolled into his quarters. He hung his green scarf on the coat rack beside the door and cautiously approached the unfamiliar set-up inside. Bruce—and it _was_ Bruce, not Brucie, he’d recognize the stiff way he sat anywhere—waited for him by the table. He patted the seat beside him.

Dick’s eyes went wide as saucers when he saw the table spread before him. “Did you—what—is this _Alfred’s_ cooking?”

“I thought you might have missed his food,” Bruce said blandly, like Dick hadn’t been tortured for three years by soggy muffins and gritty mashed potatoes. Even their cereal was unpalatable, which was true blasphemy. He had to order cereal over the internet. “I asked him to prepare something and send it over via floo. There’s a plate for Jason already in the fridge, so dig in.”

“ _Bruce_ ,” Dick couldn’t keep the grin off his face. He drew Bruce into a warm, one-arm hug before plopping himself down and digging into the pot roast. Flavor burst into his mouth and he moaned, letting his eyes flutter shut. “Oh my god, it’s alive! _It’s alive_! Bruce, I can’t believe it!” He shook his fork into the air before inhaling the rest of the roast. He chugged a glass of water and wiped his mouth. “My taste buds! They’ve returned!”

“I’m sure Alfred will be glad to hear that,” Bruce raised a brow at his antics.

Dick managed to polish off more than half of the food, and he would have been more embarrassed about his gluttonous appetite if Bruce didn’t look so… _fond_. Warmth pooled in his stomach, especially when Bruce even waved Dick away when it came to cleaning the dishes up. He wandered into the living room and turned on the TV.

Bruce returned far too soon to have handled cleaning with anything but magic—and Bruce _never_ wasted his magic on household tasks. Dick propped his head up on his arm on the couch and stared intently at him.

“What’s this about?” he said. A few weeks of Brucie taking him out to fancy places, of flirtatious winks and strange presents—and Dick would’ve been perfectly happy with something like this all along. “No one’s watching, B.”

“Exactly,” Bruce said, which didn’t really answer his question. He sat beside him on the couch and offered up an arm. Dick leaned into him reflexively. “Alfred has missed you, Dick, and I assumed the same of you. I wanted… to bring you that comfort.”

“Careful, Mr. Wayne,” Dick laughed. “Else I’ll start to think you’re getting serious with this whole dating shtick.” He tilted his head up and was surprised when Bruce actually acquiesced to his silent request. The kiss was soft and light, nothing more than a brush of lips, and it was affectionate enough that Dick couldn't help but grin reflexively. He sighed when Bruce drew back.

He said softly, “Thanks, Bruce. I’ll thank Alfie too, the next time I call.”

“Dick,” Bruce started, as if he wanted to say something more. He didn’t, however, and just turned up the volume of the TV when Dick pressed his face into his neck.

“Doctor Who,” he said when he figured out what those robotic noises were. Jason must have forgotten to take out the DVD. “Nice. Start your British education right.”

“The set pieces are horrible,” Bruce commented, and Dick let his eyes flutter closed.

 

\--

 

(Jason came back to a dark living room and kitchen. He didn’t need light to see—thank you, evil vampire eyes—and was therefore not surprised when Bruce said, “Jason.”

He’d been sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, the creepy weirdo.

“Thanks for not talking Dick out of the idea that eating dinner with the Gryffindors would magically make us all besties,” he snarked, in no mood to be appropriately respectful. He’d spent his entire dinner glowering at the sea of gold and red around him, poking at his unidentifiable goop and reminding himself that he had to. It was his trade-off for a new broom, because Dick took the whole ‘Gryffindor Quidditch’ bonding quest very literally.

“Alfred sent over food,” Bruce said, and Jason felt his irritation melting at once. He couldn’t get the fridge open fast enough. Aside from the food itself, there was nothing better than sitting in front of Dick’s _muggle_ microwave and watching science bring pot roast back to life.

“Where’s Dick?” he managed once he finished scraping the last bit of roast off the plate. Bruce had finally flicked on a light and was tapping something out on his JLA tablet. “Isn’t he usually back from patrol by now?”

“He’s sleeping,” Bruce said.

Jason stared. “It’s like… midnight. Dick never sleeps at midnight.”

“I’ve handled his patrol,” Bruce continued as if Jason hadn’t spoke. “He’s been… stretching himself thin. Too thin to notice what you’re doing with Nightwing.”

Jason froze.

Finally, he said, “I’m not doing anything with Nightwing.”

“You’ve been sending the owl off every week with letters. There are only a few people you’d send owl post to, and even fewer you’d try and hide from us.” A pause. “You’re in over your head if you think you can take Talia on alone.”

Jason flinched. “I…”

Bruce’s tone deepened into a true Batman growl. “Dick has suggested patience regarding the week you spent in Talia’s captivity, but I cannot stand aside if your secrets threaten others as well. So I’ll ask again. What are you doing with Nightwing?”

Jason opened his mouth. He closed it. He could feel Bruce’s gaze burning into the side of his face when he turned away.

“I’m saving someone,” he finally said.

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Who.”

“I can’t say.”

“Jason.”

“I _can’t_!” Jason stood up fast, chair clattering noisily behind him. “You’ll kill him if you found out, Bruce! I know you will, but he’s just a fucking _kid_!”

He glided to his room before Bruce could respond, vampire-quick and so angry he was shaking. Only the warmth of Alfred’s home cooking kept his insides from dissolving into an icy husk. There were too many layers of anger and betrayal there; too many years spent wondering why the hell this mystical Round Table played such a huge role in the JLA’s lives.

Fate could be changed. He had to believe that, for himself and for—for Damian. Damian was a _good kid_. If some prophecy said he was destined to kill Bruce, then prophecy could fuck itself in the ass.)

 

\--

 

It was Christmas Eve.

Jason stared balefully out the window at the snowly grounds, because of course he’d been left here to stew instead of going home like he’d wanted. Alfred had face-timed him this morning, of course, and it cheered him up more than he’d expected to see the butler peering up at him from the tablet.

“All will be well,” he had said cryptically when Jason had begun complaining, and then asked enough questions about his health that had Jason alternatively irked over his mother-henning and warmed by his care.

The same could not be said about the other adults in his life.

Dick wasn’t in his room, and Bruce was who-knows-where. Clark had come and picked Kara up the same time the other students had headed home for break, and Jason had felt a pang of jealousy when he saw them hug cheerfully before flying off.

The only company he had was Nightwing, who Dick had still forbidden him from stealing for more than a day at a time. The owl was warm to cuddle at least, even if it refused to disobey its master long enough to just send _one_ package off. It was Christmas time, what was wrong with everyone?

“Jay?” he heard Dick’s voice calling out from the library entrance. He’d holed himself up in a window cubby out of masochism, clearly, because for all the filtered light coming through his hood he couldn’t _feel_ anything. “You in here?”

“Hullo,” he said when Dick wandered over. He was wearing an atrocious blue-and-green sweater with what was apparently a deformed reindeer on its front with legs that ran all the way down to the bottom. “Nice shirt.”

“Got an even nicer one for you,” Dick said cheerfully. He brandished an equally horrible red-and-green monstrosity at him. “Have you been a good little boy this year, Jaybird?”

“Clearly not,” Jason eyed the sweater apprehensively. “I’m not the putting that on.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“It’s making me want to bleach my eyes out.”

“It’s _tradition_.”

“You can’t—no! No! _Stop!_ ”

“Seriously, you’re making this harder than it should be,” Dick said exasperatedly, like he wasn’t assaulting a teenager in broad daylight. Jason hissed when Dick managed to tug the sweater over his hood and yanked his arms out of the hideous neon sleeves. Dick might be irredeemably fashion-blind, but that didn’t give him the right to inflict it onto _him_. The man beamed. “There! You’re ready.”

“For _what_?” Jason snapped.

Dick smiled.

Jason could barely believe it when they landed. There it was: the strange and familiar mixture of smog and gasoline and metallic roadway construction smell; the scents that Jason had grown up breathing into his lungs.

His new vampiric senses made the smells even stronger, and only by the sheer will of his teenage pride did he keep himself from tearing up.

They were _home_.

 

\--

 

“Master Jason,” Alfred greeted him warmly, and let out a small _oomph_ when Jason ran into his arms. Wayne Manor was decked out in holiday decorations, from ornaments to paper snowflakes to every cheesy prop possible. Jason was sure the Waynes had never touched any so gauche in their lives. The culprit revealed himself when Dick took out a pair of scissors and began to cheerfully cut out another snowflake, though he had enough self-preservation to do it over a trashcan.

“Master Dick used to decorate the manor like this every year when he lived here,” Alfred informed Jason quietly. He gestured for Jason to take off his hood, and it surprised him when he realized that he could. Dick’s garish decorations and bright Christmas lights hid the carefully boarded windows around the mansion.

“Today’s a family gathering,” Alfred nudged a dazed Jason into the kitchen. Jason brushed his hand on the familiar granite, the shape and feel of everything around him. He was home. He was _home_ , and he didn’t even have to wear his near-permanent get-up for once. He flung himself into a swirly chair and spun in place. Alfred just sighed at him. “Tomorrow, however, we’ll be having lunch with a few JLA friends and dinner with our Gothamite allies.”

“Seriously?” Jason sat up. “Dick’s coming too?”

“Master Dick is attending, yes,” Alfred said, like he wasn’t blowing Jason’s mind. Dick _never_ accompanied Bruce on his trips to the Watchtower; he avoided meeting any of his old team in a group, preferring to have coffee one-on-one if an in-person meeting was inevitable. Jason called it cowardice. Dick called it self-preservation.

“Wow,” Jason said.

“I’ve prepared some of your favorites,” Alfred said, face and voice gentling. He reached out. “I… apologize that I wasn’t able to visit you afterwards. That you’ve been away from home for so long.”

Jason ducked his head. “S’okay, Alfie. I know you’ve been holding down the fort in Gotham.”

“Not without the girls’ help. And even still…” Alfred said.

“Don’t sell yourself short—amazing job with the renovations, Alfie,” Dick ducked into the kitchen. Jason narrowed his eyes at him. He seemed as cheerful and festive as he’d been at Hogwarts, and even goofier with his awful sweater. But there was a tightness to his eyes, and he seemed… stiffer than usual. Like Jason, he stepped in and swept the butler into a brief but genuine hug. “Good to see you again.”

“I’m pleased to see you in person too,” Alfred said, unflappable as ever. He considered Dick as the young man rounded the counter and began raiding the cabinets. “Master Dick, I insist you don’t spoil your appetite before dinner.”

“Good old Alfred,” Dick said, unearthing a pack of pita chips and disobediently opening it up. “So who’s coming tonight? Just us?”

“A quiet dinner first,” Alfred said delicately, and Dick just hummed.

Jason sniffed and stuck his hand into the pita chip bag when Dick strolled too close. Dick smacked his hand away. Jason extended his claws.

“ _Boys_ ,” Alfred said, which was when Dick gave up the bag and wandered back into the living room.

“He’s been like that all day?” Jason stuffed his mouth with his hard-earned snack.

The butler sighed. “I’m afraid this place brings back memories that Master Dick would prefer not to think about.”

“Bad memories?”

“No,” Alfred folded a hand towel and carefully put it in a drawer. “Good ones, before everything. This place reminds him of what he left behind.”

 

\--

 

“This place hasn’t changed at all,” Dick said, cutting another pile of paper snowflakes.

Bruce had wandered into his study early on, and out of habit more than anything Dick had followed. He was perched on the edge of the great wooden desk, shamelessly shedding paper bits all over the spellbooks Bruce had been looking at. The man himself wasn’t paying much attention, using the time home to check up on his American accounts on his laptop. “I mean it has, but it hasn’t. It’s just… well. It’s a lot.”

Bruce paused and gave him an expressionless look.

“Was it worth it, B?” Dick said softly, looking down at the paper snowflakes in his hands. “Were you happy?”

“Dick,” Bruce said. This was touching on a subject Dick had rabidly refused to acknowledge during the months they’d spent at Hogwarts. Dick knew that. But coming here and having to face the music? Well.

Dick knew when to stop running, and deciding to accompany Bruce and Jay back to Gotham had been the moment he’d made his decision. In for a penny, in for a pound.

“I know you weren’t _happy_ happy, because the Bat can’t have anything fun,” Dick said. He strung the snowflakes onto a piece of glittering Christmas tinsel and tied a knot at the end. “But was it easier, me being away.”

“Yes,” Bruce said.

Dick put the snowflakes down on the desk and looked at Bruce full on. He clarified: “It was easier pretending nothing happened.”

“No,” Bruce corrected him. He didn’t provide an explanation. Dick knew he shouldn’t have expected one, but he was disappointed anyway. And that. That pretty much summed up the worst of their relationship right there.

“I liked being away,” Dick told him. “At first, I mean. I spent so many years fighting you pushing me out of your life, I barely had time to think of who _I_ was. With that gone, it was like I could breathe.”

Bruce abandoned any pretence of working on his laptop and leaned back in his chair. His face was a polished, unreadable veneer.

“But Gotham is my home,” Dick continued. “ _You’re_ my home, and I just. I’m scared coming back means I’ll lose myself. Just being here,” he spread his arms. “Just being here makes me feel like I’m seventeen again, frustrated and scared and loving you so much it hurt.”

“Growth can’t be reversed,” Bruce told him. “It can only give you a new perspective. You’re your own man now, Dick. Don’t underestimate your strength.”

“Was that a _compliment_ ,” Dick grinned despite feeling chillingly vulnerable. Weeks of flirting and yet it felt like he was back at Square One, because at Hogwarts… at Hogwarts, that had been Professor Grayson and Bruce Wayne. Here, it was just Dick and Bruce and all the history between them, and it was _different_.

And perhaps it was because it was different that he gave in. No more pussy-footing around. No more masks. He slipped off the desk towards Bruce with familiar intent—and, rather than pushing him away, Bruce just curled an arm around his waist as he settled into his lap. He tucked his head under Bruce’s chin and let out a deep sigh.

“I’m sorry,” Bruce said, voice laden with meaning. For forcing Dick to make the hard choice. For pushing and pushing, until something had to break. For being the kind of guardian who couldn’t handle simple things like _love_ and _affection_ , and whose response to such feelings was to try and dig them out, consequences be damned.

“Was it worth it?” Dick whispered again, face buried in Bruce’s neck so he didn’t have to see his expression.

Bruce didn’t say anything. He just tightened his grip around him, until he wasn’t so much awkwardly holding Dick up in his lap as he was actually hugging him in return.

“You’re your own man,” Bruce repeated, finally. “So yes, it was.”

 

\--

 

“God,” Dick let out a small chuckle—wry more than anything else. “I want to fuck you _so bad_ right now.”

 

\--

 

Unfortunately, he had to wait until after a marvelous, Alfred-esque dinner; a few glasses of red wine that he pretended he didn’t see Jason steal a sip of halfway through dessert; and some inescapable questions from the butler regarding his self-care. And then he had the frustrating task of dragging Bruce off upstairs while Alfred grilled Jason on his lessons, but that was a given.

“Can’t believe that’s still there,” Dick said breathlessly after tugging Bruce into his bedroom and catching sight of the blue rose plant blossoming on the bed stand. “I suppose it’s kind of romantic.”

“Surveillance,” Bruce said. He hissed when Dick pulled them close enough for their cocks to brush through their pants; hissed again when Dick took the distraction as an opportunity to work the buttons of his shirt. He grinned rakishly once he finished pulling off the last of Bruce’s expensive clothes and pushed him onto the bed.

“Unknown magical constructs with several hypotheses regarding intent,” Bruce said in a tone like he was talking about the weather, even as Dick tossed the last of his own clothes off to the side and unabashedly flaunted his nudity. Bruce’s gaze felt heavy on his skin. “Whatever it is, we always knew they were associated with you.”

“Bruce.”

“Constant surveillance was the…”

“Oh shut up,” Dick crawled over him and swallowed his next words with a kiss. God, it still startled him how easy it was to do this. Considering how hard it had been in his youth, it was like giving a starving man a feast.

It took a bit of encouraging, but soon Bruce was kissing him back: intense and assertive and clearly not planning to play passive for long. Large hands swept down and cupped his ass, squeezing possessively before slipping between his legs. They stroked up the sensitive skin of his balls, perineum, entrance—Dick shivered and jerked back a bit, because if Bruce kept doing that he was going to come embarrassingly soon.

Intuitive as always, Bruce backed away and let Dick touch his skin instead. His heart beat remarkably steady beneath the younger man’s palm.

The body below him was large and hard and rugged from years of fighting. Underneath his aftershave was his own strong, calming scent, a smell that reminded Dick of home and purpose. He buried his nose into his dark hair and let out a pleased sigh when Bruce resumed drawing circles on his skin.

“You gonna do more than pet?” he whispered, thrilling at the red flush spreading across Bruce’s cheeks. God, he was a picture. Dick couldn’t help but kiss him again, wet and eager and tasting like sex. It was the kind of kiss that left him breathless and panting, until all he could do was nuzzle his stubbled jaw while reaching down to stroke Bruce’s erection with a hand.

“Fuck,” the older man hissed and bucked a little into his grip before regaining control. “ _Dick_ …”

“Bruce,” Dick teased, propping his free hand up on Bruce’s shoulder and straddling his lap in clear invitation. Bruce cursed again under his breath and hauled Dick up by the ass, his touch rough and near possessive. There was the sound of a lube bottle being uncapped, and then a slick finger was pushing inside without hesitation. Dick sighed and spread his legs further.

“Come on,” he whined. “ _Bruce_ , come on, hurry up.”

“Patience.”

“ _No_ ,” Dick huffed and ran his thumb over the swollen head of Bruce’s cock in retaliation. He was disturbingly fascinated by the feel of pre-cum over hot flesh, the way it grew wetter the more he stroked the slit. Another breathy groan escaped Bruce’s mouth, a sound that felt as good to him as did the second finger stretching him open. “I want you now.”

“You’ll tear,” Bruce was unrepentant. “Anal bleeding is a serious concern.”

“ _Anal bleeding,_ ” Dick burst out laughing despite his best attempt to keep pouting. He gave his cock one last squeeze before drawing Bruce into a more playful kiss, if only to stop himself from giggling. He rocked reflexively down into Bruce’s scissoring fingers when they broke for breath, his thumb gently stroking down Bruce’s lip. “Not sexy, B. Wow. But you’ll take care of me, won’t you?”

Bruce added a third finger: “Spoiled.”

Dick’s breath hitched just a bit at the burning stretch. “You like spoiling me.”

“Hm,” Bruce said all noncommittal, even when he intentionally brushed up against his prostate and—dare he say it?—smiled when Dick let out a full-body shiver. He brushed it again and again, unrepentant until Dick was reduced to a fluttering mess in his arms; until slipping his fingers out and gently pressing his cock inside was an inevitability and not an obstacle.

“Oh,” Dick shuddered as they fully slotted together. There was always that edge of surprise whenever Bruce first entered him. Surprise at the sensation of being stretched open at his most vulnerable; at the flash of bliss that Bruce let slip through his restrained expression; and at the way Bruce’s thighs twitched in an effort not to just _move_.

“Go on,” he encouraged, and sighed when Bruce began to thrust in a steady, though not gentle, rhythm. It took only a few tries to find the right angle, but soon Dick was gasping at every inward stroke against his prostate. “Yes— _yes_ , there. God, that’s it...”

“Move your hips more,” Bruce interrupted him.

“Can you at least— _ah_ —try and stay in the mood?” Dick laughed at his audacity but obliged, rolling his hips down as Bruce rocked up and it was. It was so _easy_ to get lost in that spiraling pattern of kisses and pleasure and soft, heartfelt _yes_ ’s and _more’s_.

Dick wanted to sink himself under Bruce’s skin and never let him go, and he felt Bruce twitch inside him when his magic took this sentiment literally. Pouring himself into Bruce sent familiar, pleasant tingles right to his toes, and he wasn’t—Bruce wasn’t—

“B,” Dick whined, out-of-breath and getting close and wanting Bruce to crawl out of that controlled veneer for once. Bruce was still so goddamn _quiet,_ it was driving him crazy. “B, come on. I wanna hear you.”

“Dick,” Bruce warned him, even as Dick ran a hand across his sweaty temple and gently sank fingers into his hair.

“Don’t you feel good?” he pushed, letting his magic dance across Bruce’s back and down to the curve of his ass. “Tell me you feel good.”

“ _Dick_.”

“C’mon,” Dick teased. “Say it.”

“Brat,” Bruce managed, voice cracking in defeat.

“I’ll tell you,” Dick laughed, leveraging himself on Bruce’s shoulders and grinning down at him as their rhythm stuttered. It was sloppy and wet and off-tempo, both of them too close to care. “Feels amazing. So hot and strong,” he pressed kisses to his face, “and _mine,_ B. This open look on your face—” More kisses. “It’s mine.”

“Yes,” Bruce whispered.

“My king,” Dick stroked his jaw. He felt as if his chest was overflowing with emotion. “My Bruce. I love you _so much_.”

Bruce growled, low and almost angry, and then suddenly Dick found himself thrown onto his back. He barely had time to reorient himself before Bruce was on top of him, pushing himself inside with determined fervor.

“You don’t know the things I could do to you,” Bruce growled. His hand on Dick’s arm was heavy and strong, his grip almost painful. Dick wrapped his legs around his waist and kissed Bruce’s jaw encouragingly. “Dark things. Horrible, possessive things.”

“What kind of things,” Dick whispered, delighting in the way his cock dragged against Bruce’s stomach; the wild, beautiful manner Bruce had when he lost control; the fact that it was Dick that had torn that control away from him.

“I could trap you here forever,” Bruce whispered, voice quieting the darker the confession. “Clip your wings and keep all your beauty to myself, forever.”

“Bruce,” Dick sighed, voice breathy and short. He could feel orgasm tingling in his toes, spreading up his limbs and into his heart. He wrapped his arms around Bruce’s neck. He tilted his head up and purred into their next heavy kiss. “ _Bruce_.”

“I’m so dark,” Bruce said, his own breath growing shorter with arousal. With the growing need to come. “Too dark for your light.”

And then, his final confession. “Too weak to not love you anyway.”

Dick’s orgasm wasn’t punched out of him so much as it was an eventual conclusion, like a growing wave that had finally crested. It was satisfying on a deeper level than almost anything else in his life, even more so once he finished spilling between their stomachs and could focus entirely on the man above him.

“B,” he said, voice gentle. He cradled the older man’s head in his arms and ran his magic through his skin: warm and accepting and sleepy. “Come for me.”

“Dick,” Bruce cursed his name.

Dick repeated, “Come for me.”

With a muffled growl, Bruce sank himself inside as deep as he could go and came. It was a warm and strange and new sensation, and while Dick liked it well enough, he liked the expression on Bruce’s face more. Just… freer. Lighter. More content than he usually was, and Dick felt a surge of familiar affection towards him. He pressed kisses to his chin as Bruce shuddered through his orgasm; as he eventually pulled out and collapsed almost on top of him, breath hot and heavy against his face.

This time, it was Dick who gently pushed Bruce over onto his back and slipped out of bed. It might have been years, but he knew Bruce’s bathroom like the back of his hand. He cleaned himself up and returned with a wet towel. He wiped them both down, gentle but business-like, before throwing the dirty cloth into the laundry hamper.

Then he climbed back into bed and curled up against Bruce’s side.

“Dick,” Bruce stirred sleepily, but lay back down when Dick gently pressed his hand onto his chest.

“I will always love you,” he said quietly, running his hand up his neck and face and tangling into his hair. “No matter how dark you think you are.”

Bruce sighed, low and even, but there was a smoothness to his face now. A gentle calm Dick had rarely ever seen on him, a look he found precious. He kissed him softly and snuggled shamelessly against him.

Sleep felt soft and beautiful, as hopeful as the holiday season promised.

 

\--

 

Downstairs, Jason scratched Nightwing behind its ears and handed it a letter.

“Not a package,” he assured him before the owl could give him a judgmental stare for trying to bypass Dick’s rule. “Just a message for Damian. It’s Christmas, man, come on.”

“ _Charr_ ,” the owl said grumpily, but obediently snatched the letter into its talons and flew out towards the owl exit in the roof. Jason sighed and stood up, fighting off the guilt eating at his stomach.

He’d promised Dami he’d rescue him, but it had been _months_. The boy was too young to write back, but he usually sent Jason pictures he’d drawn. Maybe Jason should have told Dick and Bruce about the whole thing; or maybe it was right that he didn’t. Either way, he’d already made his decision.

If Jason got his way, he’d rescue Damian before New Years and everything was going to be fine.

 

\--

 

Everything was going to be fine.

 

\--

 

“Damian?” Jason crouched low in the lakeside foliage, peering into the early morning fog through his hood. A strange tension hung in the air, interfered with his normally sharp vampiric senses like a radio signal set to the wrong frequency. He shook his head and crept closer to the lake.

The closer he got, the stronger the vertigo became. His baser, vampiric instincts bristled in warning… but Damian had said he’d be here.

“Damian?” he called out, louder, while drawing a batarang from his pocket. He wasn’t naïve. He’d never understood Bruce and Dick’s strange relationship with the Lake of Avalon—how could a _place_ have a presence?—but now that he was here, he knew.

He heard a soft, breaking branch just seconds before a dagger appeared before him. He swung down and rolled past his attacker, heart racing a mile a minute.

“You actually came,” drawled a voice he’d never forget in a million years. Jason’s already dead blood seemed to freeze in his veins. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

Talia al Ghul turned around and considered him impassively.

 _She can’t hurt you_ , Jason reminded himself. _You’re a fucking vampire, you’ve got magic, if you can scratch words into the wall you can scratch them into her face_.

“I’m surprised your attachment to my son was that strong,” she repositioned her dagger so its sharpest point was aimed at his chest. “Anyone could have seen that this was a trap.”

“Yeah, okay, my bad,” Jason said, bravado covering his nervousness. “Shoulda known he couldn’a written back so fast. Unless none of those letters were actually from Dami?”

“The first one was,” Talia said. “The bird was smart enough to send them to him directly, but it’s easy to replace his replies with my own. But that’s enough small talk, child.” He took a step backwards as she advanced. “It’s about time you returned home.”

“I don’t think so,” Jason said—and then lashed out with a crack of dark magic. It was sloppy and imprecise, but he didn’t need precision to hit a massive magical presence like Morgana. Talia dissipated with a scream, like smoke sinking into the wind. Magical construct, like he’d suspected.

Jason wasted no time in running closer towards the lake, vertigo be damned. It was bad enough he couldn’t even levitate or apparate or just get out of here altogether—and the closest zeta platform was thirty minutes away.

He was making his way across the rocky shore when he stumbled over a jutting stone and tore his pants on something inhumanly sharp. Jason shot a baffled look at his clothes. The material was designed by Bruce and then charmed by Alfred; it was meant to shield him from all kinds of muggle and magical attacks.

“Jason,” Talia’s voice called out from somewhere behind him. “You’re making this far harder than it should be.”

Blue roses. They shone like their petals were made of the sharpest blades, crowding the entire side of this part of the lake and now dripping with Jason’s black blood. Jason crawled away from them, mind whirring. He’d seen these things before.

Bruce had a plant in his room, and he’d always forbidden Jason to touch it.

“It’ll slice your fingers right off if you try,” he’d said. “Unless it’s gifted to you, these roses can cut through anything.”

“Jason,” Talia’s voice spoke into his ear. Jason jumped and found his arm caught in her vice grip, inhumanly strong despite his own supernatural abilities. “It was smart, closing in on the Lake. Your tolerance for Light magic is higher than I thought… but mine is higher. Now, no more playing. It’s time to come home, boy.”

Her grip tightened painfully, and Jason cried out. He struck out blindly with his magic, to no avail.

“Excalibur may have excised the curse I placed on you with your… conversion,” she continued, looking unimpressed at Jason’s efforts. “But you can’t escape your fate. Not then, and not now. No matter what anyone does, you’ve always been destined to betray Camelot.”

She pressed her thumb to Jason’s neck, hot as a brand and relentlessly cruel no matter how Jason writhed. The seal descended on him like a thick hood, and he couldn’t stop it.

She said, “Remember, Lancelot. Vampires are dark creatures and I… I am the daughter of the Dark.”

 

\--

 

“ _Jason_ ,” Dick bolted up with a gasp, smacking Bruce in the face by accident. For such a paranoid bastard, Bruce could sleep like the dead once he finally relaxed; he just wrinkled his nose and shifted closer to Dick’s lingering warmth.

Dick tasted blood in his mouth. It was dark and oily and completely inhuman, and he knew from the shape of its magic who it was. “ _Lance.”_

He tried to even out his breathing. Panic didn’t help anyone. Action did. He slipped out of bed and stalked the halls, heart beating a mile a minute. Jason wasn't in his room. He wasn't in the kitchen or welcoming hall or living room, and Dick had to squeeze his eyes shut and extend his magic out through the entire Wayne grounds before concluding that Jason wasn't here.

He wasn't _here._

Dick returned to Bruce's bed and lay back down. Taking a deep breath, he sighed and  closed his eyes. He hadn't manifested himself through a rose in years, but if Jason was in trouble...

He had to try.

He opened his eyes and immediately drew a shuddering breath. He recognized the air, the mist, the sheer presence of this place at once. The Lake of Avalon.

“Jason?” he called out. He couldn't move too far from his roses, and so he turned in place before catching sight of the furious footprints marring the riverbank. Panic bubbled up in his chest. “Jason!”

“Run,” a small voice said from close by.

Dick swung around and found his heart caught in his throat. A little boy stood on a cliff above the rosebushes, the bulky form of Nightwing perched on his tiny shoulders.

“ _Run_ ,” the boy called out again—just when something very familiar and very heavy struck him from behind. Stone as thick as Camelot’s greatest walls; as warded as the best-sealed vaults. He flailed and tried fighting off Talia’s grip, but his dream construct was too weak and vulnerable. Not even the great bulk of his magic would ward him without a body.

"My, my, two for the price of one. I'm impressed, Excalibur,” she told him guilelessly, stepping into view. “I hadn't expected you to react so quickly. It would’ve been best to detain you at the castle, but I’ll take this opportunity too.”

“Nightwing,” Dick tried calling out, but when he looked up the boy and bird were gone.

There was nothing more he could do then to take a deep breath as Talia pressed her magic to his temple.

When she shoved him into the water, he sank like a stone.

 

\--

 

“You say you wudden hurt ‘im,” Damian stumbled after the graceful form of Talia al Ghul as she strode down their dwelling’s hall. She held a beautiful egg-like vase in one hand, as dangerous and delicate as the rose suspended inside of it. “You _promised!”_

Talia waved her free hand at the silent vampire gliding at her side. “Does he look hurt, love? I kept your Jason alive just for you.”

Damian glanced at the imposing teenager looming above him. His face was placid and cold, his posture stiff. The bright brand of his mother’s seal around his neck glinted in the candlelight.

“Not Jay,” Damian mumbled to himself and refused to quell under his mother’s glare.

He trailed after both of them in sulky silence, making sure not to look up at where his favorite owl friend was following them in the rafters.

If he wasn’t careful, she was going to take _him_ away too.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cliffhanger! Next chapter shall be the final installment...


	6. Part Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t make me get out the Veritaserum,” Clark threatened. “I’ll accio up a bottle from J’onn’s potion cabinet, don’t think I won’t.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OHH MY GOD THIS CHAPTER. Thank you for everyone who commented during the hiatus and encouraged me to keep going. I love you guys! Especially since this whole thing was so rough.
> 
> I have written like a total of 30k for this chapter alone and managed to scrap more than half of it. HOW DO PLOTS WORK??? HOW DO I TIE TOGETHER PLOT POINTS??? In the end, I decided to be straightforward-- some exposition ahead, if only because hinting at things only goes so far. Several unexplained things will be answered soon... 
> 
> I was thinking of posting this chapter and the next at the same time (kind of like 3 and 4) but I'm going to be VERY busy the next few weeks and everyone's waited long enough. I keep saying the next chapter is the last chapter... it's either next chapter or the chapter after that. Things are clearly starting to wrap up. Cross fingers the wait for next chapter isn't as long as this one!
> 
> (oh and yes, the magic bit is pretty much lifted from doctor strange;;;;)
> 
> EDIT: rearranged some scenes and made some other edits so that things make a tiny more sense. It's still time-space mumbo jumbo but hopefully more sensible mumbo jumbo.

Clark zeta'd into the Watchtower feeling like ants were crawling under his skin, which was never a good sign given the fact that this entire dimension was linked to his very soul. Thankfully, it took only a split second to find the cause of his unease.

"What are you doing?" he asked Barry and Oliver, both of whom were huddling under a table in the cafeteria. Barry just pointed a finger towards the monitor room, and Clark sighed.

“For Camelot’s sake, Arthur," he stalked through the doors and up to the shadow at the controls, unfazed by the glare being shot his way. "The clip’s only a minute or so long. You can’t keep watching it. I mean you _can,_ you’ve been doing it for five hours—”

Bruce didn’t move. “Go away, Clark.”

“—but even reincarnated kings need _sleep._ ”

“I slept.”

“Don’t make me get out the Veritaserum,” Clark threatened. “I’ll accio up a bottle from J’onn’s potion cabinet, don’t think I won’t.”

“I can last forty-eight hours without sleep,” Bruce glared at him from over his shoulder. “It’s only been thirty hours. I’m _fine._ ”

“Thirty hours is not fine! You just yelled at your knights so much they're hiding under a table. You’re not thinking straight.”

“And _you_ are,” Bruce whipped around and bared his teeth. “If you’d been paying the slightest bit of attention, this wouldn’t have happened at all!”

“You think I don’t know that?” Clark shoved Bruce back into his seat, anger quickly overtaking whatever concern he’d had over the man's wellbeing. Because despite his unaffected appearance, Clark was running just as ragged as Bruce was right now— only his magic kept him from falling over. Magic Bruce didn't have. “They took Kara, Bruce. _He_ took Kara. But we can’t help either of them if you’re off your game from sleep deprivation, and damn you for implying I don’t care. She’s the only family I have _left!_ Don’t tell me you don’t understand!”

Bruce’s glare could curdle milk. Clark glared right back, and perhaps the man remembered he could sear off a wizard’s face with his eyes alone because Bruce turned away first. If only to pettily click play and run the surveillance video once again, of course, because when had Bruce ever made things easy.

The scene before the Metropolis Zeta Platform was white and snowy and calm. Eventually, a familiar blonde teenager landed from somewhere up above. Kara. She’d snuck out of the house when Clark had been busy speaking to Lois over the phone, and when he’d gone out to search for her…

Kara smiled when a familiar figure in a gleaming red hood stepped through the illusionary wall. Her smile faltered when, a split second later, Talia al Ghul appeared behind him.

The flurry of action was nearly too fast to catch. Kara’s blue eyes flashed. Jason extended his talons. And Talia simply stood there impassively as her pet vampire grabbed Kara’s arm before she could finish her spell—and where he touched her, her skin burned an eerie green. By the time the zeta platform had powered down, Kara was lying crumpled at Jason’s feet.

Then, there was nothing.

“She has Jason,” Clark grabbed Bruce’s wrist before he could play the video again. “Jason, who knows all your techniques and habits and the JLA systems like the back of his hand. He’s already used the zeta platforms to carry out Talia’s dirty work, the least of which was taking Kara. With that kind of asset in the Dark’s hands, we need to get ready to fight now. So _sleep_ , Arthur. There’s nothing more you can do.”

Bruce shook off the wizard’s grip and stood. Stubborn bastard. Clark could rely on Alfred to keep Bruce from working himself to the bone in the Bat Cave. Here at the Watchtower, the only person who routinely watched out for him was Clark and once upon a time Dick—

He rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Arthur.”

“I can’t stop working.”

“You _have_ to. I understand going to bed is last thing you want, but you can’t run yourself ragged. Not with Jason and Dick relying on us.”

“Don’t,” Bruce said through gritted teeth.

“He’s strong, Bruce,” Clark said—because appealing to Arthur wasn't working. Appealing to Camelot wasn't working, and perhaps it shouldn't. The man growling in front of him was very much Bruce Wayne, with all his modern flaws and concerns. For all the man sacrificed to face his Camelotian destiny, Dick was another story. He put a hand on Bruce's tense shoulder. “Whatever the Dark has done to him… I know he can fight it. He _will_ fight it. Now go.”

 

\--

 

Dick lay on the hard medbay cot like it was the most comfortable bed in the entire world.

Drips and magical monitors and whatever else J'onn had conjured up once Bruce had brought Dick in a few days ago kept watch over his boy, and. And. Bruce couldn't move. He could only stand there by the door watching, because he should have guessed something like this would happen. Excalibur was too essential a player for Morgana to ignore—she'd made sure to get rid of him early on last time, why the hell wouldn't she do the same now?

Dick's chest raised and lowered with each breath. Steeling his nerve, Bruce took a hesitant step towards the bed... and blinked when the world around him rippled.

“This body has no soul,” a phantom voice called out moments before its owner phased into view. Nabu.

"What the _hell_ was that," Bruce snapped, barely resisting the urge to puke. Because the clock on the wall didn't lie. Ten minutes.

They'd gone _ten minutes_ back in time.

"A time slip," Nabu didn't even bother turning to face him. He floated by Dick's bedside and put a hand over his forehead. "Ripples and tears that happen when two interdimensional beings draw near. The final battle is approaching, my king, and you will find time and reality unable to contain the clash that will come."

Bruce glared at him. "We are in a _pocket dimension_ , the last thing we need is for time to be distorted. Put it back."

"I can't."

" _Put it back_."

"I _can't_. Not consciously," Nabu hissed. "The Light controls the time slips. It only uses me as a channel."

"Bullshit," Bruce said. He'd never bought Nabu's hands-off approach to their problems, even when the god clearly had powers that could help them win a war. A war _his_ creator started. "You using Giovanni Zatara's body is using him as a channel. The Light creating you doesn't make you a _channel._ It's not watching your every move; it's not even a person—"

"It's more than a person," Nabu said. "More than a god. I'd watch your tone, my king."

"If it's a person, than where is it?" Bruce stood firm. "I've felt R'as's fist against my face, but the _Light_?"

" _We_ are the Light," Nabu thundered. The hand pressed to Dick's forehead glowed. "And that is enough questioning out of you. What matters now is what Excalibur has done, and how his actions have cost us the war. We can't kill the Dark without him."

"Yes, we can," Bruce said. " _You_ can kill the Dark, can't you?"

Nabu held his gaze for a long moment before looking away. Finally, he said: "...that is not my purpose."

"But you _can_."

"That is _not my purpose_."

"So you're saying you don't have free will" Bruce said ruthlessly. "Nevermind Dick's headstrong nature, or the well-documented cases of _human_ horcruxes having a mind of their own—"

“ _Don’t_ use that word,” and oh, the fierce crackle of Nabu's magic around him was so familiar and yet so foreign. Dick's magic had always been warm, like liquid sunlight; Nabu's was a fierce chill. It would've been a tiny bit terrifying if Bruce wasn't thrilled at actually being _right._ Shards of Light had always sounded like a turn of phrase, but at its core meaning...

Well. What _else_ was a shard of a soul?

Nabu said, “You humans cannot fathom the sacrifices the Light made to save the Earth thousands of years ago. To split a soul is pain beyond imagining, but it was done to give humanity a fighting chance against the Dark. And then Excalibur chose _you_ —”

"He did, and we can't change that. What we can change is _you._ You're our greatest asset right now."

“No."

"Nabu, please—"

"I _cannot!_ " Nabu thundered. The air crackled. "I am not so easily manipulated, Arthur! I am not your _tool_!"

Thunder suddenly crackled from above. A growing storm gathered around the god as he rose into the air, terrifying and awesome in his rage, and Bruce's hair stood on end.

"You are an insignificant, fleshly organic creature," Nabu shouted. "Thinking himself worthy to command a _god_! Thinking himself invulnerable, as if he's necessary for the Light's plans. When we don't need him at _all_!"

Crackling lightning boomed from outside the Watchtower dimension, and it was like the time slip times a thousand. Every inch of Bruce's amulet heart screamed at him in warning, because this kind of dimensional storm—

Lighting struck from above, too close to Dick's soulless body for Bruce's comfort. “No!”

It never made contact.

The lightning came close enough to burn the hairs on the back of his neck—to sear his skin to near-boiling—to drive the amulet-portion of his soul crazy to near bursting.  And then a familiar shadow fluttered through the dimensional walls instead, the flapping of its wings nearly deafening in the silent vacuum left by the lightning bolt. Nabu froze, his cape going from rippling frenzy to a still sheet of golden cloth. He raised a hand and allowed the large owl to settle on his forearm, and then—

The world rippled once again, even more violently than before. Bruce turned and threw up on the ground, because twice in one hour? He wiped his mouth and settled back into bed. He blinked. Bed?

Nabu was gone. The lightning was gone, and the smarting burns on his neck were nowhere to be found.

Bruce was inexplicably tucked in bed beside Dick’s body, something not even Nabu or the Light's will or whatever the hell was controlling the shards of Light wanted. Then again, perhaps the time slip wasn't Nabu's fault at all.

Nightwing sat motionless on the bed stand, large eyes watching him unblinkingly. Its metal-blue feathers practically radiated defiance. A familiar defiance, and Bruce's breath caught in his throat. It hopped onto Bruce’s chest and strutted up to his chin.

“Dick?” Bruce whispered to the owl. He reached a hand out and placed it onto its head. “Is that you?”

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing said, and carefully nuzzled his hand. It didn’t do anything, however. Just sat there until Bruce’s eyes drooped closed as sleep finally claimed him.

 

\--

 

(They weren’t in bed. They weren’t even in the medbay, which would have made the most sense. It was just emptiness in every direction except for where Dick was sitting cross-legged in space, looking… tired. Raw. Bruce hadn't realized how lively Dick's dreamscape was until the glittering lights in the distance were gone.

“Bruce, I need you to listen to me for once in your goddamn life,” Dick grabbed his arm. Despite its ghostly transparency, his grip felt solid. “If it comes down to choosing between me or Jason, you have to save Jason.”

“No,” Bruce said. It was definitely Dick. He could recognize the taste of his magic anywhere.

“I’m not asking, Bruce.”

“And I'm not listening."

"When do you ever listen," Dick said. "You never listen. That's the whole point of this conversation."

Bruce breathed in Dick's magic again. Relished in its soothing comfort. Dick narrowed his eyes at him, and Bruce opened his mouth: "We’ll save you both. This point is a non-starter.”

"I’ve made _contingencies_ for this situation, Bruce! But Jason's just a fucking kid _,_ he's not prepared for this at all. Promise me you’ll save him first.”

“Dick.”

“ _Promise me_.”

“If you can guide us with Nightwing..."

Dick suddenly laughed. Bruce glowered at him. "You're such a stubborn ass. That won't work and you know it. You'll need Jason’s help to find the Dark's castle. There's no way to figure out its entrance without him.”

“You’re both coming home,” Bruce repeated, feeling like a broken record but not caring a bit. Dick loosened his hold on his wrist. Slid it down to his hand and gripped it firmly, reassuring in a way only he could pull off. “I’m not letting you drown again.”

Dick just smiled sadly. “Of course not.”

A pause. Finally, Bruce said: "Stay."

“Can’t,” Dick shook his head. “Time’s almost out. You'll see what I mean, B. Transferring memories...  it's all I can manage for now before she catches me."

“Dick—”

The younger man gave his hand one last squeeze before the dream apparition exploded into feathers. Metal-blue feathers that melted into his skin upon contact, and memories yanked him further into the abyss of his mind.)

 

\--

 

Dimension hopping. Time control. Magic. Everything was just a story within another story; layers upon layers. Bruce Wayne was King Arthur, and King Arthur was a pawn in a game of interdimensional chess. At least R'as—the Dark—had the decency to fight his battles in person. The Light hadn't even bothered.

It was brilliantly cost-efficient to battle in another world entirely. Perfectly within control, especially with pieces of its own soul to make sure its will was done.

Except even shards could have a will beyond their creator.

Dick had been the first to rebel; it only made sense for him to continue to do so. It was easy enough making contingencies given the dissonance he felt between being Dick Grayson and being Excalibur. Like a piece of paper already scored. All he had to do was make the first cut—and the rest would follow after.

 

\--

 

(Here was the memory Dick wanted Bruce to see.

“I don’t want things to be the same as before—in Camelot, I mean,” Dick confided to Zatanna with a sigh. They were in her apartment in London: Dick not yet in full control of his powers, Zatanna still on the quest for her father. It seemed like a lifetime ago compared to Hogwarts. Back then it’d been a new beginning. “The Dark destroyed us. I don’t want that to happen again.”

Zatanna finished her bowl of green curry and tapped Dick’s dirty cutlery. “Then don’t let it. And put your dishes in the sink.”

The bowl went crashing against the wall instead. Dick tucked his wand back into his pocket with an embarrassed sigh.

“Performance anxiety?” Zatanna snickered, and earned herself a petulant kick in the shin as Dick crawled over her to clean up the mess. It was a bitch to spell back together shattered porcelain, but it wasn’t impossible. And his control was getting better.

“You know, if you just invested in some non-breaking charms on your cutlery, this kind of thing wouldn’t hap—ow!” he jumped mid-rant. The last porcelain shard had sliced through his index finger, and the cut was deep enough for blood to begin dripping onto the floor.

“Merlin’s beard, Dick, you need to get that bandaged up,” Zatanna said. After a moment without reply, she said, "Dick?"

“I’m fine,” he managed, wrapping his hand around the cut. Zatanna opened her mouth but was interrupted by the fireplace beside the couch roaring to life.

“Zatanna!” a voice called out from the ashes. “Headmaster Longbottom’s sent you two letters already, and the owls haven’t come back. What have you been doing?”

“Albus, this is not the time,” Zatanna shouted back.

“The OWLS evaluations were due last week!”

“Go handle it,” Dick said. When Zatanna glared at the still-bleeding cut on his hand, he rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to bleed out onto the floor.”

“Knowing you,” she hissed, but stormed to the fireplace anyway. Dick stuck his bleeding finger into his mouth and put a last touch of magic onto the bowl. He set the intact bowl onto the coffee table and stared at it. Then, he got up and went to chill on Zatanna’s tiny porch. Listening to her ramble on about whatever the hell she did for a living was boring as all get out.

The porch was filled to the brim with tiny magical terrariums, each containing some miniature creature that chirped at him as he walked past. He crouched on the rickety stool by the balcony edge and squinted at the sky. Owls regularly passed by the apartment. He liked owls.

He’d wanted one way back then, before losing his magic. All the other elementary school students had at least a family owl, but Bruce had never seen the point when they had telephone and email…

An owl dipped too close to the apartment. It wasn’t the first time that it happened, and it wouldn’t be the last, but it was the first time Dick _saw_ it. It swept beside the windows as it searched for its recipient, and when it got too close to the darkened window of Zatanna’s guest bedroom… something whipped out from the glass and wrapped itself around the squawking bird.

Dick stumbled to his feet as he saw the vines—and they were vines, familiar and ghostly and covered in razor-sharp thorns—yank the owl through the window like it was made of air. He hurried back indoors, past Zatanna sticking her head into the floo, and stumbled through the guest bedroom door.

He stopped dead still at the sight inside. Three owls lay in a circle around the ball of roses he’d magicked up weeks ago. Dead owls. He stumbled backwards as the world seemed to slip. Something uneasy bubbled up from within him, and then.

And then.

He tried to stop it, but he couldn't. It was like that time he lost control and felt words burst out of his mouth at the sight of blue roses. It was like the first time he confronted Morgana and felt Excalibur thrumming under his skin.

It felt like a stranger pulling his strings, and he wanted it to _stop._

But he couldn't.

“Dick… _Dick_!” Zatanna’s voice broke through his trance.

“Hm?” Dick blinked. He glanced back at her, and—oh. He was sitting on the couch. The fireplace was dark and cold. And his finger was still bleeding, clutched around the broken bowl in his hand. It was like the last ten minutes hadn’t happened. “Oh—sorry, I’ll finish fixing the bowl now.”

“Forget the bowl! Dick, that’s the third time you’ve zoned out this week. It’s not a hex or a curse because I’ve checked!” Zatanna grabbed his hand and pressed her wand to the cut. " _Leah_!" In the blink of an eye, it was gone. No more blood. No more vines. And certainly no more dead owls laid out in a ritual he shouldn’t have known. “Is this a… _Camelot-_ related magic thing? Are you sick?”

Good question. Had any of that really happened, or was he just hallucinating? Zee’s conversation with the fireplace had certainly felt real. Dick wanted to lie down, but that’d probably freak her out even more. “Sick? I don’t—I don’t get sick, I’m fine.”

Zatanna stared at him incredulously.

“I’m going to tell Batman about this,” she finally said, and that cut through his daze in an instant.

“No!” he grabbed her wrist. “No, Zatanna. Please.”

"There's something wrong with you, Dick! And despite us not knowing each other for very long, you're kind of a cool guy. I don't want you to die on my watch."

"I don't want to die either," Dick let go of her. "And I'm not going back. You can’t tell Batman, Zee. This isn’t—this is for him, you understand?" He paused. “I don’t want things to be the same as before.”

Zatanna growled and threw up her hands, but the look in her eye meant she wouldn’t tattle. Good. He watched as she stomped off to her study and wondered what the hell was the matter with him. No matter what he said, he knew something was happening. Something dangerous and indeed Camelot-related, because messing with what felt like the fabric of reality was _ancient_ magic.

Dick didn’t like to refer to Excalibur as a separate entity, because that made him feel a whole ‘nother level of crazy on top of his already crazy life. But when things like this happened, he couldn’t help himself. Dick Grayson wanted to shed that history like he’d shed Bruce’s influence by escaping overseas. Excalibur, on the other hand, had other plans.

History would not repeat itself. Camelot would not die.)

 

\--

 

(One day, an owl with familiar, metal-blue banding appeared on top of their fridge. Zatanna had no idea where it came from, and neither did Dick. Still, he carefully pet its sleek feathers and smiled when it ruffled its wings in brilliant display.

After Nightwing appeared, the zoning stopped. Neither he nor Zee mentioned the episodes again.)

 

\--

 

(God-fucking-dammit, Dick.)

 

\--

 

Bruce woke with a gasp.

“Nightwing!” he grabbed for the owl, who simply fluttered into the air and swept a circle above the bed. Urgency boiled beneath his skin. “You have to take me to him. Morgana will _kill_ him. She will _drown him_."

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing said, sounding almost disapproving. Then, in a move that had usually been Nabu's alone, it simply flew towards the Watchtower wall—and phased right through. Bruce took a shuddering breath.

Then, he threw a nearby flower vase against the wall.

“Bruce, what are you doing?” Clark apparated right into the medbay, still dressed in his superhero outfit despite spending hours needling _Bruce_ to sleep. Hypocrite. As if on cue, he added: “Did you even sleep?”

“I need to know everything,” Bruce whirled on him, teeth bared in a snarl. He flung himself off the bed and stalked up to his friend. “Nabu visited last night and I need answers, Merlin. I don't appreciate being kept in the dark. R'as al Ghul is operating at full capacity while more than half of the Round Table haven't remembered anything useful, and the difference is showing. What are we fighting for? What or who _is_ this Light?"

Clark hesitated. Finally, he said: “It’s _complicated,_ Arthur."

“They’ve taken _Dick_ ,” Bruce snapped. “And they’ve taken Jason. Un-complicate it."

Clark was silent for a long, unreadable beat. Then, he looked down at his watch. “One hour until our morning meeting. Fine. Sit down, Bruce. This... this is a lot.”

 

\--

  
 

Damian's skin _itched._

It was cold down here in the dungeons: dank and moldy and far worse than the prison they’d kept Jason in. The girl hung like a ragdoll on the wall across from the stairwell. She didn’t look up, not even when Mother pushed Damian forward and waved her wand over the intricate green runes drawn onto his bare skin. It was like a thousand miniscule ants crawling over him at once, but he knew better than to react.

The first few times he protested, Mother had disciplined him severely.

“Now,” Mother said once they stepped close enough for the same green runes on their prisoner’s chains to light up. The girl hissed and jerked away, but there was no escape. Green veins blossomed under the skin of her arms, and Damian… Damian took a shaky breath. It was easier drawing magic from the runes now; easier after several rounds of practice. The painted runes on his skin burned and hissed and lit his palms up with a green glow that caused their prisoner to cringe away.

“You don’t have to listen to her, Mordred,” the girl whispered to him as he approached. Damian pressed his little palm against the rune on their prisoner’s chest and flinched when she _screamed_.

“Try harder,” Mother scolded him over the girl’s cries. She steadied his palm over her wildly thumping chest. “Shatter that seal. It is something only you can do.”

“I can’t,” Damian said, as he’d done every time before. And like every time before, Mother was immovable. His palm felt like it was smarting, like fire was eating it from the inside out—“I can’t, it’s—”

Something actually seemed to give when he pressed forward again—and then he was flying through the air. He crashed hard onto the unforgiving stone of the dungeon: disorientation and panic and his hands feeling like they were smoking. There’d been a push back the last few times, but this… this hurt so much more.

“We do not have time for this,” Mother snapped. Damian bit back tears. “We have come too close for us to fail because of you. Get up.”

“Merlin’s beard, Talia, he’s four,” their prisoner coughed.

“He’s my son. The prince of Camelot. And he will claim his birthright. Get _up,_ Damian.”

“Hurts,” Damian whimpered when he braced himself on his palms and almost collapsed. The skin on his hands were an angry pink. “Sorry, Mother.”

“Forcing your kid to break the seal to Camelot,” their prisoner said. “That’s low, even for you. Just because _you_ need my consent to yank the portal open doesn’t mean you should force your _kid_ to do your dirty work for you.”

“Damian understands the price we must pay for success, Nimue,” Mother said.

Damian sniffed. He hated it when Mother used that Disappointed Voice, but he couldn’t muster the strength to try the ritual again. Not so soon. Mother seemed to finally understand that after watching him for a beat.

“I suppose a break _is_ in order. Damian, get yourself cleaned up. We’ll continue in an hour.”

She turned and stalked to the stairwell, not bothering to wait for Damian to pick himself up. Damian sniffed again and hauled his body into a sitting position. He wiped the dirt from his cheek.

“You don’t have to follow her orders, Mordred,” the prisoner addressed him once Mother was out of hearing range. Her voice was almost gentle. It reminded him eerily of Jason, and his chest hurt. “I know she’s your mother, but you are more than her son. I can feel it. There is Light magic in you.”

Damian didn’t respond. He focused on brushing the dust from his clothes, because if he wandered upstairs dirty Grandfather was going to rap his hand. That, and princes don’t cry. Only babies cry, and Damian wasn’t a baby.

The girl watched him for a long moment before she spoke again: “You just want to help Jason, right? Me too.”

That got his attention: “Jay?”

"Jason’s my friend too. He—he helped me feel normal, you know? Thrown a thousand years in the future, I had no idea what was happening. He didn’t either. And he doesn’t—he doesn’t deserve to be called a traitor if Morgana’s controlling him,” she blinked rapidly. “The one sure way to break the seal is to strike it with Excalibur. And I can _feel_ his soul in this place. He’s here, and we can find him together.”

“And save Jay?”

“And save Jay,” she confirmed.

“I…” Damian managed, taking an involuntary step forward.

And then there was a sudden crack of apparation, and a hand clasped his shoulder.

“Mordred,” R’as al Ghul drawled in a dangerous tone, focusing his gaze on the suddenly ashen witch before them. “What have your mother and I said about speaking to the prisoner?”

Damian resisted the urge to squirm. “N-not to, Grandfather."

“Do not allow Nimue and her friends to feed you lies,” and _oh,_ Grandfather’s hand was ice-cold. “The Light is not the hero they think it is. You are my grandson, Damian. You are the one who can finally bring me justice.”

“Because the Light hurt you,” Damian parroted faithfully.

“Yes,” R’as said. “It took something very important away from me. And for that, we will hurt them back.”

To his shame, Damian hesitated. If anyone could save Jay, it was Grandfather. He said in a very quiet tone, “I don’t want Jay hurt.”

“He won’t be. Your mother’s brought your pet vampire under our wing. He is safest here where he belongs.”

Except _that_ Jason wasn’t the real Jason. Damian opened his mouth. Closed it. He looked up at Grandfather and saw the steel in his eyes; and realized, finally, that neither Mother nor Grandfather was ever going to let Jay go. His lip trembled. He found his gaze drifting past Grandfather and landing on the bedraggled witch still chained against the wall.

“Find Excalibur,” Nimue mouthed to him silently. “Save Jay.”

“—Damian?”

Damian snapped back to attention.

“I _said_ your vampire is safe here under my power. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Grandfather.”

“Good,” Grandfather tilted his head, and the shadows suddenly shot out and cracked Nimue’s head against the wall.

“None of that, girl,” the wizened man said. His hands dug into the meat of Damian’s shoulder. “Go upstairs, Mordred. Your mother and I need to discuss our next move.”

Damian scurried up the steps at once, his heart thudding in his chest. Watching Grandfather’s blasé handling of Nimue, of the way that Dark magic curled around the runes on his back and tried seeping under his skin… it was wrong. He’d been raised with stories of how the Light had struck first, and for that they deserved to take its favorite kingdom in retaliation.

But not for the first time, he wondered why the Light had attacked. What kind of things had his grandfather done?

“Excalibur,” he whispered under his breath as he trudged into his bedroom. The Sword of Light. One of the two entities capable of killing Mother and Grandfather for good, and King Arthur’s greatest source of magic. In some ways, rescuing the sword was the most traitorous thing he could do.

But he was also the only one who could break Jason from his mother’s thrall.

“Excalibur,” he repeated, and took a decisive, shaky breath. Then, he quietly slipped out of the room and headed downstairs. Nightwing had vanished right after the first ritual they’d attempted on Nimue. Mother and Grandfather were in a conference room talking in low voices. He wanted to find Jay. Even if it was the fake Jason, it was better than no one at all.

 

\--

 

“Jason knows how to evade us,” Bruce announced during the JLA morning meeting, stubble unshaved and hair unkempt. No one mentioned it, because no one besides Clark had a death wish. “The best place to shake off zeta-trail tracking is at the Lake of Avalon. Its magic interferes with zeta magic, essentially wiping away any trace of where he’s been. If he wishes to remain undetected, Jason has to pass through the Lake every time he carries out Morgana’s errands. If we find him, he can lead us right to the Dark’s lair.”

“And then what? We storm the castle? We’ll be wiped out in seconds,” Oliver scoffed, ignoring Diana ribbing him hard in the side. “You got a plan in that big head of yours, or did the sleep take that away too?”

“I do have a plan,” Bruce said, steel-backed voice leaving no room for Oliver’s annoying backtalk. “And I remind you to watch your tone, Bors. If everyone can wait a moment, I’ll go over the roles each of you need to play…”

Clark rushed after him once their meeting was dismissed, “Antagonizing Bors already? It’s been an hour, and he’s still mad you yelled at him yesterday.”

“Oliver Queen is a big boy. He can handle it.”

“That’s not the—” Clark sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “Just. Are you okay, Arthur? We haven’t talked since this morning.”

“I’m fine.”

“’Cause I noticed your plan’s missing a huge piece right at the beginning. Even if we find Lance, how are we going to get him to cough up the Dark’s location? He’s under Morgana’s spell and we…” Clark shook his head. “We don’t have Excalibur.”

“I know a guy,” Bruce said.

“You _know a guy_. A guy who can break the seal that’s not Dick. _Who?”_

 And really, Clark should know better than to ask stupid questions.

“A vampire,” Clark tamped down his fury enough to regain his ability to speak. He’d been sullenly trailing Bruce along the Lake of Avalon's coast, quickly checking for wards and other harmful spells that Bruce didn’t bother considering in his walk. He glared at Bruce. “Your friend is a _vampire_?”

“Friend is a _strong_ term,” Vasile said dryly, cool and regal against the misty backdrop of the lake. He was particularly ghostly in the dim fog, a pale white against dark black except for his red eyes. Red eyes that burned too brightly for an average vampire.

Of course it did; Vasile had drank Dick’s blood, after all. The vitality in that one mouthful would last him _years._

Clark rarely used his wand, but recent events clearly had him spooked. He lowered the weapon he’d nearly beheaded Vasile with and glared as the unruffled vampire continued: “I prefer allies with a common goal. Morgana’s enslaved enough of my people. I want her gone as much as you do.”

“You can’t trust a vampire,” Clark said.

Bruce glared at him.

“Not a _real_ vampire!”

“Clark,” Bruce said. “Shut up.”

“I slaughtered dozens of vampires in the first fight for Camelot,” Clark set his jaw. “And I suspect I’ll slaughter a dozen more. They can’t be trusted, not with the Dark’s natural hold over them.”

“Deny it all you want, but Jason is one of us,” Vasile snapped. Dark magic poured off of him in waves, and Bruce had to actually concentrate to keep himself from absorbing it. Mostly because if he did, Clark would blow a gasket. “And it is precisely because vampires are such a large part of the Dark’s force that you will need my help. If you want to infiltrate their base, my people are the ones to call upon.”

“Why would we need to call upon some Dark blood-suckers—”

“Enough! Merlin, we’re on the same side,” Bruce interrupted Clark’s tirade before it could really gain steam. “And Jason needs us all to work together. So let’s get it done.”

His old friend gave him an indiscernible look.

“I don’t like this,” he finally declared, but he stepped back in assent. “You better know what the hell you’re doing, Arthur.”

“I do,” Bruce told him with more confidence than he possessed. But he’d built his entire superhero persona on the biggest bluff a squib could make, and he was no stranger to feigning cool. Vasile simply hissed at Merlin and vanished back into the ground, and Bruce had no choice but to accept grudging cooperation for what it was.

Jason needed them. Dick had been right when he’d pushed Bruce to find Jason first, even if he was loathed to admit it. He wasn’t one to pick favorites—because that only invited more unnecessary competition, and he knew Jason had enough of a complex already—but he was allowed to acknowledge his own selfishness. He wanted nothing more than for Dick to be here supporting him, assuring him that Jason would be fine.

He’d failed the younger Robin more than he could ever imagine. Even with Clark and the rest of the Round Table standing behind him, he couldn’t help but worry he’d fail him again.

 

 

\--

 

 

(“The Light is an interdimensional force," Clark had started his explanation. "You know that. You’ve seen Nabu phase through pocket dimensions like he was stepping through air. There are a lot of… theories that postulate that the ‘magic’ we wield is in fact interdimensional energies mixing into our blood. It’s why objects that mess with dimensions or time streams—time turners and objects like the Veil—are so dangerous. They don’t affect just us, but magic itself.”

"And the Holy Grail is one of these dangerous objects.”

“R’as al Ghul nearly destroyed Camelot to get it. Of course it is. Because the truth is, Arthur, the Dark was once an interdimensional force too. Until the Light managed to tear that ability away and threw the Dark into our world. But it couldn’t take that power into another dimension. It was... because it was taken unwillingly... and so it had to hide it away."

"'It?' What was it? Clark."

"A piece of the Dark's soul. The part of him that could traverse dimensions, that would have ravaged the multiverse—"

"The Light _cut R'as soul_."

“It doesn’t matter. No, listen to me. At the end of the day, the result is the same. R’as wants to find Camelot and take the Holy Grail from its throne room. If he does, he’ll destroy the kingdom. He’ll destroy Earth. And then he’ll move through dimensions like a zeta beam across time and destroy _those_ worlds as well.”

Clark sighed. “Nabu and Dick were created to guard that piece of R’as's soul. The Holy Grail. But then you… but then you came along, Arthur.” Clark looked pained. “Just some world-weary, idealistic boy who found the Grail in its clearing. Who phased through the wards because your soul was _different_. And when Excalibur rose to stop you, you reached out to him. And he found you worthy.”

Bruce slowly turned to look at Clark head-on. This. They never talked about this.

“Magic is simply dimensional energy seeping into our world,” Clark continued. “At the rate the Holy Grail was leaking magic, it wouldn’t be enough to fill a town. But your soul is an _amulet_ , Arthur. When you took the Grail and amplified it through yourself—”

His somber expression lightened just a bit in wonder. “Magic flooded the world. It was beautiful. _Camelot_ was beautiful.”

“But it caught R’as’s attention,” Bruce said, voice flat. “And he came for it. Nabu was right. It’s my fault.”

“That’s one way to look at it. But R’as would have found the Grail eventually, Camelot or no. And bringing magic into this world… using the Grail to bring everyone forward rather than just yourself. Excalibur found you worthy for a reason. And I know he would do the same thing again—he _has_ done the same thing again. Because there are things that really are worth sacrificing yourself for. It doesn’t make it your fault. It just… goes to show how much he cared for you.”

“Cares for me,” Bruce corrected. He clenched his hand into a fist to keep it from trembling. “Dick’s alive.”

“And we’ll find him,” Clark said, softening his voice. “We’ll bring him home.”)

 

\--

 

Bruce took a shuddering breath from behind Clark’s shielding charm. The two of them were crouched awkwardly in a large winding tree, the shared branch not nearly big enough to fit two grown men. They were at the very edge of the Lake, where metal-blue rose bushes began bleeding into a bright meadow that seemed out of place in this dreary setting.

His calves started to cramp after half an hour.

Bruce was used to waiting. It wasn’t the waiting bothering him. He just wasn’t sure Jason would pass by here when the closest zeta platform was nearly an hour and a half’s walk away. But Vasile had seemed adamant that he’d come, and so here they were.

And eventually, Jason did come.

Well, someone wearing Jason’s body did. Bruce didn’t need to see the boy’s expression beneath that impenetrable red helmet to realize that. His impersonal gait was all kinds of wrong. He clenched his fists.

“Clark,” he whispered when Jason was nearly below them. He was clearly ferrying a small satchel strung across his chest, though when Bruce extended his senses to taste its magic he found nothing especially important inside. Just an expanding charm and the low buzz of magical ingredients tucked in jars.

He gestured at Clark with a hand. Nothing fragile to be careful with; go ahead with the rescue. His friend nodded once in acknowledgment—and then dropped right onto Jason’s head.

Surprise was barely on their side. Clark managed one good spell before vampire talons sliced bloody lines across his chest—faster than Clark could shield with his own magic, but only just. The wounds healed once the nigh-invulnerable lifeblood pumping in his veins began doing its job, and Clark used Jason’s disorientation from that to go for the kill.

The forested area around the Lake gave Merlin the perfect advantage. Bruce hadn’t realized that until he felt the wood beneath him beginning to shift in tune with Clark’s movements. Clark and Kara both drew their magic from the Earth and sun rather than from within themselves, as most other wizards did. Their ability to tap into near-infinite power was what made them so powerful. So different.

The wood rippled again, and Bruce leapt from the branch before it could throw him off. Clark tugged that magic into himself and quite literally shattered Jason’s impromptu shield with his fists alone. They grappled until Clark managed to shove the vampire against a nearby tree. Leaves shook. His satchel fell to the ground. The vampire snarled as the wood came to life behind him, wrapping shifting tendrils across his arms and chest and practically melting him into its trunk.

He tried to wriggle free, but Merlin wasn’t considered a legendary wizard for nothing.

Bruce circled the panting duo, allowing Jason to finally see him.

“Jason,” he said, keeping his voice emotionless and steady. Distract him. Keep him off balance.

Jason’s masked head twitched. He thrashed once, twice, as Morgana’s seal around his neck glowed an unnerving purple. Bruce’s first instinct was to rush forward and tear the magic apart, but Clark put a hand up.

The seal extended purple tendrils across the surface of Jason’s red helmet. Its eyes glowed. And then the vampire lifted his head and laughed. “…guess again, beloved.”

Bruce let out his breath. “Morgana.”

“For now,” Jason’s head cocked. “There’s an alarm spell on each of my puppets that goes off whenever one is in danger. I’ve been expecting _this_ one for hours. You’re off your game, Arthur, if it took you so long to track down your lost Robin. Can’t see without your little Sword guiding your way?”

“Talia,” Bruce said harshly. “That’s enough.”

“Do you think addressing me by my modern name will endear you to me? I’m not Talia. I’m Morgana, and I always have been. If you ever believed otherwise, you were an old fool.”

“It is not foolish to hope someone can make the right choice. There was good in you, Morgana. I saw it before.”

“An illusion to further the Dark’s goals. You’re deluding yourself.” Talia-in-Jason’s-body wriggled a foot. Clark narrowed his eyes at the tree, and another tendril wrapped itself around his ankle and forced him back. “Though we’ve already had this conversation.”

“We have.”

“There’s no point in rehashing it.”

“There isn’t.”

“You’re stalling,” Talia said. The vampire glanced up and stared at something invisible from up above. Bruce’s heartbeat thudded in his ear. “Tracing the magical connection allowing me to puppet him. Clever. But don’t forget, Arthur…”

Clark suddenly tensed.

“…I’m clever, too.” And then Talia wriggled Jason’s other foot, flipping open the cover to the satchel—and the tree _recoiled_. _Clark_ recoiled, face turning ashen at the green paste inside the first container of the bag. Bruce had never seen Merlin look so ill. So scared.

“Clark!” he hissed when the wizard stumbled back and folded in on himself, knees hitting the ground with a hard thud. The tree tendrils holding their prisoner rescinded like they’d been burned, and then the vampire was wrenching himself free.

He snatched up his satchel and hit Bruce hard across the head with it, glass vials and all. His vision went white. He came to half-sprawled across the ground, one hand on the wand he’d taken out of his pocket and the other pressing fingers against his forehead. He tried summoning up a stored _Episkey_ to heal the injury at the same time as he glanced up at Jason’s escape.

The vampire flew over a crippled Merlin effortlessly—and then crashed into what seemed to be thin air.

Vasile came into focus.

“You have to fight, brother,” the older vampire hissed—and rammed the bare end of a cloth-covered hawthorn stake right into Jason’s beating heart.

 

\--

 

(“How likely will this failsafe kill him?” Bruce examined the hawthorn stake in his hands, taking absent note of the runes carved along each perfectly-sanded side. “Hawthorn’s deadly for vampires, and if you strike him in the heart…”

“The runes worked into the wood will only allow damage to the magical leash Morgana has on him,” Vasile said. When Bruce tried handing the stake back, the vampire gestured for him to keep it. He withdrew a second one from his pocket, this stake carefully wrapped in a thin cloth so it didn’t burn his hands. “The heart is the blood organ—the center of a person’s magic and soul. It is where Morgana has sunk her claws into, and any hope we have of freeing Jason lays in severing that connection for as long as possible.”

“And how long is that?” Bruce pocketed his own stake and considered Vasile. He could tell when information was being kept from him, and it wasn’t as if his trust in the vampire was absolute. Besides, he hadn’t answered the question.

The vampire hesitated. Clark, who’d been watching with a tight-lipped frown from the tree above, sat up in warning. The leaves around him rustled menacingly.

Vasile shook his head and turned to look Bruce dead in the eyes: “For as long as his heart stops beating, my king. If you insist on your locating spell, you must complete that _before_ we trigger the failsafe. He has until he’s at the brink of true death to try and break free, which is when I must jumpstart his heart once more… whether he broke through Morgana’s spell or not.”

“Do it,” Bruce said, leaving no room for Clark to open his mouth and argue. “But be warned, Vasile. If something goes wrong and Jason dies, I will come after you.”

“I expect nothing less,” the vampire drawled, tucking his clothed stake into the depths of his impossibly black robes.)

 

\--

 

Jason came back from the apothecary’s with blood staining his shirt. Damian, who’d been waiting impatiently in the room across from the zeta platform, dropped his book and scrambled over towards the whirring light. Mother, however, was closer.

“Ingredients,” she held out a hand. The vampire wordlessly handed the dirt-covered satchel over. Damian crouched behind Mother’s legs and stared up at his only friend with big blue eyes. If he expected recognition of any kind, he was disappointed.

Mother snapped her fingers, and Jason removed the red helmet like a soldier undressing in the barracks. She stroked his forehead and jaw with a careful hand, until she reached his neck and the seal that lay there.

“No more tricks,” she finally assessed, stepping back. Damian hadn’t realized the seal had been cracked until she dropped her hand, and the seal was a glowing, purplish circle once more. “Good. You’re no use to us dead.”

She took the satchel and strode down the hall towards her potions lab, not even bothering to dismiss the vampire like she would a _person._ And Jason just stood there, blank-faced, until Damian found the courage to walk up to him and tug his hand.

“Jay,” Damian said. “ _Jay_.”

Empty eyes finally looked down. “Yes, Master Damian?”

“You’re bleeding,” Damian pointed at the bloody stain across his chest. The cloth had a huge tear in it, too, like something had sliced right through it. Jason slowly reached up and placed his fingers to the gash. He furrowed his brow when his hand came back covered in sticky black blood.

No reaction. Damian scowled at him. Making up his mind, he grabbed Jason’s clean hand and tugged him across the room and down the hall. The vampire went without fuss. He let Damian sit him down in a chair and carefully take out a box of bandages from the drawer. Chef had revealed their location the last time Damian scraped a knee and Mother refused to spell it better.

Jason only spoke once Damian finished patting down the last bandage over his bare chest. “The wound will heal on its own. Your mother wishes for you to continue your studies.”

“She says or you say she says?”

Jason cocked his head. The disturbed feeling in Damian's gut intensified. Nimue's words practically roared in his head the longer he tried coaxing an answer from the teenager. They needed to save Jason. _He_ needed to save Jason, but he didn’t know what to do.

“Jay, come on,” Damian tugged his sleeve. “Mother’s not here. You don’ have to act good. We can talk. Jay. Jay?”

No response. Damian wanted to hurl his magic at him in frustration. To hurt and destroy. But that wouldn’t help Jay at all, and the only thing that could… he buried his face in Jason’s lap and fought fiercely against the stinging in his eyes.

“Please,” Damian whispered, little hands gathering what fabric he could grab. He’d already asked Mother, and he’d already asked Grandfather. There was only one more person he could ask for help, even if it meant betraying the truth he knew. Or the truth he thought he knew. “Please Excalibur, please help me help Jay. I-I’m sorry I gots you captured but I wanna help _Jay._ ”

Silence. Damian sniffed.

“ _Please_.”

And then, heartbroken and alone with nothing but a shell of a friend, he heard it. The soft flutter of wings.

Jason reacted for the first time, too, slowly tilting his head up to stare at the creature in the rafters. It was a simple gesture, but a revolutionary one, and Damian… Damian had never felt so relieved. He scrambled to his feet and reached up with his hands.

The warm, feathery weight of the owl landed in his arms, and if Nimue had been like a warm spark of fire… Nightwing was the _sun._

“You came back,” Damian whispered fiercely, mouth buried into the owl’s feathery neck. Its disappearance after Nimue’s torture… he thought perhaps he’d crossed a line the owl wasn’t willing to overlook. He wrapped tight little hands around its bulk and squeezed his eyes shut. Nightwing simply cooed. “You came _back_.”

“ _Charr_ ,” Nightwing said. It glanced up at Jason, who was furrowing his brow at its familiar shape. Then, with a nod to Damian, it wriggled from his grasp and launched itself back into the air. It glided out the kitchen door and Damian, like a moth drawn to a flame, followed. But not before addressing Jason one last time.

“I’ll help you, Jay,” he whispered to the vampire still sitting in the chair. “I promise.”

Jason stared after him. Then, so small it could have been a trick of the light, Damian could’ve _sworn_ he smiled.

 

\--

 

He followed Nightwing down empty, haunted halls; up winding stairs that passed by the room Grandfather had overtaken for planning purposes. The owl vanished through a wall when R’as al Ghul so much as turned in their direction. Damian would’ve panicked if he didn’t see the owl reemerge from the opposite side of the room, safe from the Dark’s eyes.

It was hard to put into words why Nightwing filled him with so much hope. Maybe it was the way it had protected Jason that first week; the way it had offered Damian companionship and understanding. Or maybe it was because he felt a kindred connection to the Light inside the creature—the same way he felt connected to the Dark whenever Mother or Grandfather touched his shoulder with a hand.

He followed Nightwing until it arrived at a dead end across the hall from Mother’s room.

The owl turned and let out an encouraging hoot—and then disappeared through the stone as if it was made of air.

Damian put a hand to the wall. It was solid. He hit it once, twice, and hissed when his hands came back scratched up from the coarse stone.

“Nightwing!” he called, but the owl didn’t reappear. Damian pressed his forehead to the wall and squeezed his eyes shut. Nightwing wouldn’t have led him here if it didn’t think he could walk through this wall. Which meant Damian could.

Of course he could. He was the heir of Camelot.

He pressed his little palms against the stone and concentrated. Magic. There was magic built into these stones: Dark and familiar and purple. Mother’s magic. Damian had long learned that circumventing her curses was no easy task, but Nightwing had just slipped right through. It was like the owl had passed through on an entirely different magical plane, but it wasn’t like _Damian_ could do that. Probably. He’d never tried before, because he was supposed to be the Dark’s grandson.

 _Courage_ , he told himself. He took a deep breath and seized on that warmed section of soul he’d always ignored. The part that soaked Nightwing’s sunlight up like a dry sponge; that had found courage in Nimue’s words; that, for once in his short life, felt _right_ enough it _glowed._

Then, using his Light magic alone, he walked through the wall.

He opened his eyes. It was a small, dark room—an offshoot corner that housed a large window that overlooked the courtyard. A stand had been set up beside the glass, and there was something covered with a dark cloth.

Something that was singing.

Nightwing was perched beside it, unruffled at Damian’s rocky entrance. For all Damian’s worrying, the owl clearly hadn’t doubted him. It hopped onto his shoulder as he approached.

He pulled the sheet off of the stand and let it flutter to the floor.

It was the rose Mother had brought home alongside Jason, suspended in water and trapped in a sort of hard, crystal-like container. Damian remembered seeing dozens and dozens of these roses along the lakeshore. He’d ached to reach out and stroke a delicate petal, until Mother had stopped him with a hand. They were dangerous. Deadly. It had taken Mother days of enchanting this crystal so she can even snatch a rose up at all.

But now that it was trapped, it couldn’t possibly hurt him.

“ _Charr,_ ” Nightwing encouraged. It hopped back onto the stand and pressed a wing to the crystal's wall—and the rose inside glowed. Damian didn’t need to press his palm to the crystal to realize what this was. Who this was. Still, he hesitated before reaching out.

He had spoken to Nimue. Called for Nightwing and slipped through his mother’s careful spells. He’d already forsaken his family by coming here, but this felt like the ultimate betrayal.

Mother had jailed this creature for a reason, and if Damian actively worked against her plans…

If he worked against her plans, he’ll save Jason. He’ll save Nimue and Nightwing and—and his _soul,_ that quiet part of him that ached to break away from Morgana’s plan. Watching Excalibur die the first time had haunted his dreams since what felt like forever.

Damian was only four, but he hated feeling helpless.

He pressed his palm to the crystal.

The song rose to a fever pitch before suddenly culminating into a voice that seemed to speak right into his mind.

_And who are you?_

He forced himself to take a deep breath. “’m Dami. Mordred. And I need your help to free Jay.”

 

\--

 

 

“What the _hell_ happened,” Zatanna, with the help of one Barry Allen, arrived on the scene ten minutes later. With the trees misshapen, Clark and Bruce both on the ground, and gashes from where a vampire’s talons had scrabbled the dirt—well. It looked like a bomb had gone off. “Where’s Jason? What’s wrong with Clark?”

“Tell me you traced the magic source,” Bruce coughed. He regretted not putting up a shield when Jason—Talia—had wriggled free from his confines, but he’d been too bewildered by Clark’s sudden incapacitation to react correctly. It cost him valuable time. Information. An amateur mistake that could have cost them everything.

Zatanna and Barry exchanged glances. “Well, there was a… problem when we began honing in.”

Bruce sat up. Clark was still slumped on the ground, but he was slightly less concerned now that the color had returned to his cheeks. He focused instead on the immediate issue: “That spell took hours to set up. What problem?”

Because simply trailing Jason hadn’t been the answer. It had been Kay’s idea, actually, to trace the magical source binding Jason—and the rest of the vampires—to Morgana’s will. To navigate the magical waves in the air like a radio tuning in to the right frequency. Kay—J’onn—was intimately familiar with these invisible threads, being a eudaemon whose existence straddled the line of physical and magical reality.

“The destination we traced kept jumping across the map like it couldn’t focus,” Barry waved his hands, trying to find the right words. “We narrowed it down to somewhere in the Caribbean Sea… an island. But that’s a lot of water, Bruce, and the radius of potential spots is _miles_ long. Plus, I’m not sure if we’ll be able to find it even if I speed over there and began treading. ‘Cause you’re right, B. The Hogwarts librarian said that spell was exact to the _coordinates_. Powerful stuff. Not a lot of things powerful enough to ward that off except…”

“Places under Fidelius,” Zatanna said. “Or those hiding in pocket dimensions. Perhaps both. We can’t stumble upon it even if we want to. I’m sorry, Bruce.”

Bruce took a deep breath. Released it.

They’d known it was a possibility. R’as, like other creatures like him, was well-acquainted with pocket dimensions. An understandable preference, given that he had little to no difficulty phasing through them.

“Vasile?” he asked. Facts. He needed more facts.

“Gone,” Zatanna reported, glancing around. “Off to contact his resources. Perhaps the vampires know a way to get past the Fidelius, but I doubt whatever spell it is would work for humans. He did… he did leave a message, though.” She pulled out a piece of parchment from her pocket. “Found this in my hands when I arrived, decided it was some speedy vampire shenanigans. It doesn’t make any sense to me. If Jason’s not here, then it… failed, right? Breaking the seal?”

“Lance’s a stubborn son of a bitch,” Barry murmured. “It just… surprises me. If anyone could break out of Morgana’s control, it’s him.”

“It would have taken all his effort to do so, and there would still be a high chance of failure. The safest option was to pass a message.” Bruce snatched up the parchment and looked over it in silence. “A message that could turn the tide of this war.”

He turned the parchment over and showed it to Barry.

“Dude,” Barry said, “this is just a bunch of letters and numbers.”

“Look again.”

“A… password?”

Bruce sighed. “No, Barry. It’s a pocket dimension coordinate. Its code changes monthly, but R’as always ended it with _L-0-S_. This may be our way around the Fidelius.”

“Stupid muggle is me,” Barry threw up his hands. “What are you going on about?”

“We can find the Dark’s lair through its own backdoor,” Bruce said. “The pocket dimension anchored by R’as: the League of Shadows headquarters.”

 

\--

 

“Jason,” Morgana strolled into the kitchen and found the vampire sitting placidly in a chair. “Where is Damian?”

Jason didn’t respond, and Morgana let out a frustrated _tch_ under her breath.

“Stop being difficult. It only makes things harder for you, you know,” she said conversationally. She snapped her fingers, and Jason stood up like he’d had his strings pulled. “If you're not busy placating my son, then I have a new task for you. My beloved is disoriented but not crippled, and Father will not be satisfied until we deal the finishing blow. What do you say about visiting your precious Watchtower one last time?”

Jason wordlessly extended a hand. Morgana _accio’d_ his red helmet over with a flick of her wrist and placed it in his palm. He clasped the helmet in place.

“You know what to do,” Morgana said. She patted his hand. “No matter what the little boy in your brain thinks about it.”

Without a hint of hesitation, Jason turned and stepped towards the zeta platform, even as some voice in his mind screamed obscenities at the world around him. He threw the zeta powder at the wall and recited the numerical address for the Justice League Watchtower.

Zeta-ing out was always easier than zeta-ing in. Jason—the real Jason, trapped within this puppet’s mind—had noticed how impossible it was to zeta directly into the castle. One must always go through the League of Shadows headquarters first and then zeta in from there.

With the Shadows headquarters’ address in hand, he hoped to god Bruce would be able to find a way in. Even after all that had happened, the small childlike part of him did indeed believe the Batman could save him. Batman could do anything.

 _He doesn’t have Dick_ , the traitorously pessimistic part of his mind whispered.

 _No,_ Jason hissed back. _But he’s got his Round Table. And that should be more than enough._

\--

 

(When things got too bad, Jason liked to retreat into his mind’s memories. Pour over every last detail for anything that could help him,  because he might be a more fisticuffs kind of Robin but he was still trained by the best.

One incident had only occurred a few weeks ago, but it felt like a lifetime after what had happened since.

Kara watched, fascinated, as Jason heated up a bowl of ramen in Dick’s ridiculously small, impossibly clean microwave.

“It’s using these wavelengths to excite molecules—it heats it up,” Jason tried explaining when she pressed her face to the glass. “No magic involved.”

“Muggle technology is so fascinating,” she smiled, smushing her nose against the screened glass. “What is a molecule?”

“Well, what’s a horcrux?”

“Where did you hear that word,” Kara looked at him sharply, casual tone entirely gone.

Jason startled but hid it the best he could with nonchalance. “Around. What is it? Something bad?”

“We don’t talk about horcruxes,” Kara said. She turned and directed her brooding to the spinning microwave plate before her. “Not in my time, anyway. Modern wizards do because of what happened fifty years ago. Zatanna explained it to me, and I still can’t understand how someone could actually create one. Not just one. _Seven._ Any human would go mad.”

“Still haven’t answered my question, Kara.”

“Why do you even want to know?”

“’Cause people aren’t telling me? You know me—the more you say you can’t talk about it, the more I want to know.” A pause. “Unless you’re going to ask after Dick and Bruce, in which case I don’t know anything.”

“Arthur and Excalibur were lovers in Camelot,” Kara said.

“I don’t know anything!”

“Fine. How about I tell you what a horcrux is, and you tell me what’s really bothering you. The truth, Jason.”

The microwave dinged. Jason narrowed his eyes. “Fine.”

Just to show he was a good friend and not an absolute asshole, he used his vampire magic to open the microwave door, levitate the steaming ramen bowl off of the plate, and float it onto the table.

“A horcrux is an object that contains a piece of someone's soul,” Kara said. “A soul… especially a human soul, is not meant to be split into parts. To do so would take great magical trauma. Once split, the caster needs only to place that soul into an object.”

“What the fuck,” Jason rummaged around the cabinet for a pair of chopsticks. He handed it over to Kara. “Why would someone do that.”

“Immortality… or that’s what people seemed to think in the modern age. But if one truly dies, then the piece of soul inside that object doesn’t miraculously gain their consciousness. It simply prolongs their suffering.”

Jason gestured for her to eat the ramen. Kara looked hesitant for about two seconds before she visibly steeled her nerves. She slurped up her first noodle, and seemed instantly hooked.

Jason ripped open a second ramen packet while Nimue, elegant Lady of the Lake and the Great Merlin’s baby cousin, stuffed her face with instant noodles.

“You said that’s what people think. So there’s another reason to go at your soul with a chisel?”

Kara stopped gobbling for a second and wiped her face with a napkin in perhaps the daintiest way possible. Only Kara. “The idea for the horcrux didn’t come from humans. It was simply a poor human replication of what—of what the Light had done to the Dark.” She pressed her hand to her chest, where the seal of Camelot lay. “And in that case, the horcrux was created from ripping someone _else’s_ soul apart.”

“And the Light is the _good guy?_ ” Jason shoved his own lunch into the microwave to keep from showing Kara his shocked expression. “You just said ripping souls is like, what? Taboo?”

“It had no choice!” Kara hissed. “And after it took away the Dark’s dimension-hopping, it turned that spell onto itself. It—it created _two_ horcruxes of its own to guard the Holy Grail, and I won’t have you dishonoring its sacrifice!”

After a pregnant pause, in which the only sound was that of the microwave whirring as it rehydrated five-hundred percent of Jason’s unnecessary sodium intake, he finally spoke his mind. He’d promised, after all. “Look, Kara, I don’t really care about this Light and Dark thing. I became Robin to make sure those wizarding assholes would stop picking on us poor muggles in Crime Alley. And then suddenly there’s this ‘Oh the Justice League is the Round Table from Camelot, they are of the Light!’ and I just don’t really care? And now you’re saying we’re playing a part in some interdimensional cat-fight, and I’m like _why?_ ”

“The Light—”

“—sacrificed parts of its soul, etcetera, but two wrongs don’t make a right. Or two wrongs don’t make one wrong right. Not to mention the whole human horcrux thing—how many people have died trying to replicate what the Light did? Aren’t all those deaths on its head, too?”

“They are,” a familiar voice interrupted them, and Jason jumped. Dick was giving them an inscrutable look from the kitchen door. Hair artfully styled and green tie pristine, he almost passed for a functional adult. “And the answer is six successful attempts, to my knowledge. Including Lord Voldemort, seven-horcrux Second Wizarding World instigator himself.” A pause. “And hundreds of failed attempts, though the numbers dropped off after the tomes were burned in the fifteenth century. But recent events have caused a resurgence.”

“Don’t you have a class to teach,” Jason tried not to look guilty over pilfering Dick’s ramen stores. He’d said Jason could help himself, and Kara hadn’t ever had anything so chemically toxic before. It was a necessary life experience. “What are you doing back here during dinner hours?”

Dick shrugged, “What are you doing here instead of the Great Hall?”

“Well excuse you, but Hogwarts food sucks all kinds of ass. And not the good kind.”

Dick made a face. “As a professor, I feel obliged to remind you there are ladies present.”

“This ramen does indeed make the food here taste like a goblin’s behind,” Kara said blandly, and Jason nearly choked on his mouthful of noodles. “And those deaths are not your fault, Dick.”

“How are they his fault?” Jason said before his brain caught up with his mouth. Excalibur, the Sword of Light. A name he’d earned from…

“The Light isn’t here to take responsibility,” Dick said. “But I am. How did you guys even get on this topic?” And for some reason, he immediately glanced over at Jason instead of Kara. He’d be offended if he wasn’t right.

“Roy,” Jason said.

“What?”

“Roy Harper,” Jason said, louder. Dick looked like he’d been slapped. “He—he brought up something over the Teen Titans group chat and I was wondering what the hell he was talking about. Yes, I’m still part of the group chat! The older titans seemed to know, and…”

“It was an old mission,” Dick said. “Nothing more.”

“But _you’re_ a horcrux,” Jason said stupidly. Dick put a hand to his head and took a deep breath. The cutlery _rattled_.

“Finish your dinner,” he finally managed, looking up and smiling like he hadn’t taken a moment to stop himself from throwing Jason out a window. He put his hand on Jason’s head affectionately, displaying his utter lack of self-preservation as usual. “And do your homework. Things like this… well. If I had the option, I’d drop Camelot in a heartbeat. But Bruce needs me, and I’m grown up enough to help him. You’ve kept yourself away from all of this for now. Don’t join the fight if you don’t have to.”

And then he just left without letting Jason get a word in otherwise, and if that wasn’t just their problem in a nutshell. Bruce never opened his mouth, and Dick never closed his. All they left was a flustered Kara and a confused Jason in their wake.

Dick essentially telling him to mind his own business rankled somewhere deep, even if he’d just told Kara he joined up to help the common folk. Because even if he wanted to help, Jason _wasn’t_ part of the legend. Or if he was, he was better not knowing what he could have done.)

 

\--

 

J’onn and Barry Allen lay unconscious across the medbay floor. Jason yanked out the strange vial stuck awkwardly in his chest. Barry had jammed the syringe into Jason's stake-wound before the vampire had flung him against the wall. He dropped the empty vial onto the floor and let its clatter echo in the otherwise silent chamber.

Then, he walked up to Dick Grayson’s medical cot and tore out the WE technology monitoring his condition. He slung the soulless body over his shoulders and stepped over the other knights on the way back to the zeta platform.

“Lance…” he could’ve sworn J’onn try to whisper. Some part of him ached to reassure him that things could be worse; that he could’ve chosen to kill the two knights rather than spare their lives; that he retained _some_ control over his actions. Still, he doubted they’d appreciate it. The vampire threw the zeta powder at the platform wall and rattled off the pocket dimension coordinates for the League of Shadows headquarters.

He stepped through and watched, expressionless, as the portal closed behind him. J’onn’s weak face glancing up at him was the last thing he saw before it winked out entirely.

Dick’s body breathed but was otherwise as limp as a flour sack. If Morgana aimed to halt its steady heartbeat, it wouldn’t be a challenge at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO MUCH EXPLAINING. SO LITTLE PAGE SPACE. TOO LITTLE TIME.


End file.
